It's Always Autumn in the Old Trees of Despair
by Kodiak Bear Country
Summary: A trade agreement goes wrong. Sheppard is separated from his team, forced to live a life foreign and dangerous, while the rest of the team and Carson Beckett must cope with the events.
1. Chapter 1

Title: It's Always Autumn in the Old Trees of Despair  
Author: Kodiak bear  
Rating: M  
Category: Drama  
Warnings: This fic is dark, and the rating above should be taken seriously. While there is no non-con sexual situations, there is torture and disturbing content, so please take the warning seriously and if it is not your thing, you might want to pass on reading this story.  
Summary: A trade agreement goes wrong. Sheppard is separated from his team, forced to live a life foreign and dangerous, while the rest of the team and Carson Beckett must cope with the events.

AN: This is a long fic, written for my friend Mandy who requested a dark fic wherein Sheppard is isolated, tortured, while his team begins to believe the worst in him. I know my vision is probably not what she had, but hopefully at the end, I will have achieved something just as good! Thanks to Shelly and Linzi for keeping me going on this fic! Also, I'm writing the ending currently so I am going to get posting the parts slowly. There are some parts of this story that had special fonts, the fic is also archived on my livejournal with that special formatting.

**It's Always Autumn in the Old Trees of Despair**

By Kodiak bear

The small blue bird flew obliquely towards the rising building ahead. Free of the trees, wings beat the air powerfully, and the small avian suddenly angled up, up and skimmed, belly to stone, around the old, ivy covered building, oblivious to the humans and their conversations.

Inside, "Colonel, why have you come here? We did not ask your people to our world."

John wanted to say that he hadn't asked to be captured, disarmed and have his team thrown into a cell, either, but shit happens. "I've already told you, we're looking for allies against the Wraith."

This leader of men, women, children and a village decimated to nothing more than a ghost of glory, sat on a throne of stone. A crown of gold leaves, reaching for the one before, rested on his head; dark brown hair already turning to silver. With a hand clutching the edge of the arm, he leaned forward, studying Sheppard. "You saw from the time you left the Stargate that we have nothing to offer as allies. We are beaten, ground to dust beneath the wraith's feeding hand."

"But we can help. You have food – we always need to eat." Sheppard wished Teyla was up here instead of in the cell because this was really her area. He had tried to stay out of the bartering as much as possible after the debacle with the Genii and C-4. If a leader says, "We need this," Sheppard was too easily swayed to offer things that he shouldn't, even knowing what he did now – treachery was a practiced art around here, on a galactic scale, because death was a heartbeat away, for everyone.

In an audience room where the atmosphere felt as cold as the brightly mosaic tiled floor, Sheppard would've thought it impossible to get any colder, yet Naem lowered it to sub-zero with his chilling gaze that felt as if it went straight through John, searching out secrets that Sheppard would tell over his dead body.

"You talked to my people."

Trade agreements for food were important, but so were their lives, and Sheppard was beginning to believe the leader in front of him was a danger towards that end. "Well, you see, they asked some questions." He rested his hands loosely on his hips, going for non-threatening. "We answered them."

Gauzy curtains of black, covering floor to ceiling windows along both walls, danced in the breeze. Black to help heat the throne room, and completely ineffective, because this room might have large murals of brightly painted fields of gold, and silver waterfalls, yet it still carried the air of a dungeon. People, they create atmospheres of their own, and Naem was creating a very unhealthy one to Sheppard's way of thinking. The man's eyes narrowed on him like a hawk.

The king slid from his seat, waved off his personal assistant (least, that's what John assumed the person was), and stepped down the three-tiered dais. It wasn't like there were a lot of places for him to go, but the elevated platform that held the throne was backed against a portion of wall that was forward from the rest of the room, and on either side, columns of something – marble, maybe –were entrances to a rear exit, or another antechamber.

Naem wore a subtle outfit considering his position, mused John, keeping his cursory examination of the would-be adversary as discreet as possible. There are different kinds of people, and he wondered what kind was Naem. Was he the kind that was flashy for show, but empty underneath? Or maybe he was the kind that dressed with purpose, to portray their core, forceful outside and in. Those were the most dangerous, unpredictable.

This king, he was on the wrong side of middle age, but he radiated a strength that still remained, and that worried Sheppard, because every vibe he was getting screamed 'Danger, John Sheppard, Danger'. The burgundy tunic fell from shoulders to knees, and there wasn't an ounce of fat to break the straight lines of cloth. The pants were black, like the curtains that blew up from the floor with the gusts of wind, but made from the same fabric as the tunic. Braids of gold stitched patterns on the shoulders, hem, and wrists of the tunic. It smacked of power, and just served to make Sheppard that much more uneasy.

_Walk softly in the woods of autumn, because danger hears your approach_.

And he had a sinking feeling he hadn't walked soft enough.

OoO

Naem walked through the village streets, guards surrounding him, keeping him safe from the desperate. His kingdom, his people – reduced to rabble, and he hadn't been able to save them, or do anything to keep the wraith from doing terrible damage. The rebuilding was going on everywhere he looked. Stone was patched, buildings too far gone to be repaired, torn down for new to be built, but where before there had been thousands of villagers, now there were hundreds.

He stopped to console the broken. A woman, her name was irrelevant, cried about her lost husband and how she no longer had anyone to work her fields and repair her home. Two ragged children were latched onto her skirt, staring hungrily up at Naem. As if the king could wave a magic wand and bring her husband back, or create someone new to work her plow.

The impotent rage at having nothing to give, no answer to the uncertain future, made him turn and stride away. Everywhere he went, it was the same. Sometimes it was a husband left, sometimes, all that was left, were the children. He would nod to his guard, then, and have them brought to his manse on the hill. Enough orphans could be cared for by his servants, and the older ones could help watch and raise the younger children. Being able to do something felt better than nothing.

But as he returned to his home, he couldn't forget the look in the woman's eyes as she silently accused him for every horror she'd suffered. He was their king, their protector, and in the end, it hadn't meant anything, because a crown of golden leaves doesn't impress the wraith.

It was that afternoon that this man, this Colonel Sheppard, arrived with his team of four, and bearing promises of relief for nothing more than a trade agreement. By the time Naem had his team brought to the manse, the leader brought to him while the other three remained in a cell, he knew the damage had been done. His people were looking for any answer to ease their misery, and this Sheppard had given them something Naem hadn't been able to – hope.

"You were not given permission to offer false hope to my people." Naem stared at the dark-haired, lithe panther of a man that stood ready in front of him. His eyes assessed Sheppard for what he was, and Naem held no misassumptions. This man was dangerous, calculating, and capable of doing what he had to.

"Who's offering false hope?" He didn't move as Naem did when the king circled him; instead, Sheppard stayed still, focused on the throne. "Look, Your Majesty, we can help your people. I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."

Naem's eyes flicked over to those of his guards and he saw the interest. Turning, and striding back to his throne, Naem knew this was a serious situation. His people's faith in him was already suffering. Now, this stranger arrives with gilded promises, that no matter how false they might be, the desperate never saw reason. His people looked to him to protect them, but the wraith weren't the only ones capable of doing damage. "If I agree to open talks, what assurances do I have that your people are not going to betray us? To take our crops and give us nothing in return?" Naem asked, his voice echoing off the walls, as he turned, and sat.

"We wouldn't do that," Sheppard insisted.

"All I have is your word." Naem lifted the cup off the small ornate table by his throne and sipped the liquid. "It's not enough." Hospitality would've dictated providing guests with refreshments, beds, and pleasant conversation, but Naem wasn't interested in hospitality. He wanted to restore his people's faith in him as a ruler. He could do his job as their ruler, and he would.

The panther, he considered Naem's declaration before offering his own solution. "Come back with us. You can meet my leader, and see who we are, and what we have to offer."

"I'll allow your people to bring her here." Naem wasn't stupid. He went through that Stargate to their world and his people would be left for the taking.

Sheppard's face grew inscrutable, but he eventually nodded. "Fair enough, but I can't promise she'll accept. She tends to stay close to home," he explained. "For safety."

Naem understood. He waved a guard over. "Escort Sheppard and the others to the Stargate. Let them leave unmolested." He stood, feeling more tired than he had in a long time. "Colonel Sheppard, you and your people may leave. Talk to your leader. If she agrees, return and we will talk."

OoO

Sheppard was pretty sure this was what it felt like to receive a last minute stay from the executioner. He'd been convinced Naem wasn't going to let them go, and they'd either need a miracle, or a rescue, and maybe even both.

He was escorted to a cell on the lower level. There were stairs that led down, into a dark hall that was only lit by torches. It was clean, but stagnant, with no windows to circulate fresh air. There were wooden doors nestled in the stone, and he was marched past three before they stopped at one. The guard shot John a look that said stay, and he withdrew a leather strap of keys, unlocking the door with clumsy hands, enough so that Sheppard thought these cells didn't get a lot of use. Again, it conflicted with what he'd seen. Naem was dangerous, and the thought of people being unfairly imprisoned for speaking against him had popped into Sheppard's head easily enough, but the evidence said his assumption was wrong.

He'd been separated from his team not long after they'd been escorted into the cell. The guard jerked his head at the three familiar figures to move out. Rodney came first, opening his mouth to say something, but Sheppard cut him off. "Good to see you're still alive."

"Yes, well, same to you." McKay's grumble was only a little bit harsh.

Teyla's smile was heartfelt. "Colonel, we were worried."

Ronon didn't say anything, because he was too busy intimidating the guard.

"I'm fine," Sheppard assured them. "And this man is going to be nice and escort us to the 'gate."

He could see they all had questions, but two servants arrived with their gear, and everyone got busy with putting their tac vests, holsters and weapons on. Once they were suited, they followed the guard up the steps the same way they'd gone down, and John wondered if there were other exits. The trip to the 'gate wasn't long. Not wanting to let on about where they came from, John sent Rodney to the DHD while he stepped in the guard's line of sight. "Tell your king we'll be in touch."

The man nodded, not saying anything, but Sheppard could see the curiosity in his eyes, before the guard turned and walked away, his duty done.

The burning question remained within Sheppard. What was he going to say to Elizabeth?

OoO

In the end, he settled for laying the cards out on the table, and letting Weir decide. He explained his uneasiness about Naem, but confessed the cells were empty, the guard not familiar enough with the keys to unlock the door without fumbling. She said actions speak louder than words. Naem might be dangerous, but he was probably a leader trying to protect his people as best he could. John didn't fail to notice the sympathetic look on her face when she'd said it.

They returned, with a larger escort of Lorne and his team, along with John's. Naem greeted them with the same wariness as before, and there was something there in his posture or face, that by the time the agreement was reached, Sheppard was more bothered than ever. They'd trade tools to make farming easier, medicines to help keep those people left alive, healthy. In return, they'd get a fifth of the total harvest. No weapons, Elizabeth hadn't even let it be brought to the table, and for once, Sheppard agreed.

They also agreed to make regular visits, to ensure the people were learning to use the equipment without any problems, and the medicines were working. The visiting team would be either Lorne's team and a doctor, or Sheppard's team and a doctor. Naem had insisted; he didn't want anyone new coming through that 'gate. When they left the next day, John couldn't shake the uneasiness that infected him to the marrow in his bones. Something was wrong here, and he couldn't put a finger on what.

OoO

Naem couldn't find fault, as much as he had wanted, with the newcomer's proposal. This Elizabeth Weir, he had watched her through the candlelight dinner, and saw her for the truth that she was. She had ate without reservation, talked pleasantly with his guards, servants, and earlier, with the villagers as she toured the recovering town. She had hugged children, and women, and shook men's hands, and even hugged one of them, when Rolos had broken down after the conversation had taken an unexpected turn into the culling of his wife and son. Naem had turned away, feeling every ounce the bitter taste of ashes, the failure to protect his people.

Weir's people – they had weapons to defeat the wraith, to protect their own, and yet, they offered nothing more than help with cultivating the land and treating the sick. In the eyes of his people, Naem could tell that it was all these newcomers needed to do, to win his people over. They saw Elizabeth Weir and Colonel Sheppard as mythical bearers of a safe future. Naem saw them as a means to an end. They would help tend the wounds of his people, help them recover, but he would not stop watching, because these were _his_ people. He was their king, and failure once did not mean he would fail again.

They left the next morning, and he toured the town after. Saw the shining faces, joking conversations, and felt it like a slap in his face. He had been unable to inspire this change, even though he had tried. Naem was growing old, the last of his family, and soon he would be gone, with no one left to fill his position. The rulership was passed from father to son, or, father to daughter, and likewise could be passed from mother to son, or daughter. He had been the last to survive.

Naem had married once, and she had died bringing forth a child that had only lived for ten days after his mother -- Jaem. He had been beautiful, and had eased Naem's torment, made it bearable, and waking to find the healer crying and holding Jaem's lifeless body had sealed the despair into the capsule that was his heart; always present, always festering -- always hurting.

The pain had caused him to become a prisoner in his own manse. He had vowed to never love another woman, or create another child. Naem regretted it now, in the autumn of his days, with no successor, and nothing to give his people. Perhaps that was where he had wronged them, giving them nothing to believe in, the monarchy at an end, and no one knew what would happen when Naem went to meet their maker. In all the recorded histories, never before had a ruler passed without an heir, not even with the wraith, because the royal family had a secret place, and only the personal guards knew of its location.

The first monthly visit was the team under the command of Major Lorne. The man was greeted warmly enough by Naem's people. He had a doctor that lined up all the children and examined them, treated a few for conditions that he said would become life-threatening, but Naem could not see anything wrong with them. The equipment given to help the crops was checked for damage and any questions were answered. It went without any problems, but Naem was left more unsettled.

His people were beginning to look at Sheppard's people as Gods. Capable of solving all their problems, and it created a cold pit deep in his gut, one that he had not felt since Sareal died. Naem was being usurped by a people not even of his world. His guards walked with him through the town on his regular visits, but those waiting to greet him dwindled. By the time the next team returned, only a few of his people waited to see him, to be blessed.

It was Sheppard. He walked the streets of Naem's town, was greeted with worship and praise. The children flocked to his feet, to all of them, wanting to hear stories of their fight with the wraith, and where they came from, but on that, Sheppard's people were vague and would never say, and it made Naem feel all the more suspicious. Was this a new plot? To garner his people into lowering their defenses, so that they could eventually take Naem's people without bloodshed to show for it? Was this going to be treachery and more pain?

Naem watched from the road, his guards standing loyally beside him. The doctor wasn't the same as before, but this man seemed even more genial with the children than the woman before had. He checked those that had been singled out for treatment and said they were doing fine, but Naem believed there had never been anything wrong, it was just another ploy to endear these strangers to his people, to gain their love. He had seen enough, and turning, he walked to his manse, a plan forming even as his steps carried him automatically down the path his feet knew so well.

OoO

Sheppard hadn't wanted to return to P6X-371, but it was his team's turn, and besides, Lorne's team had been off world somewhere else, doing another meet and greet. He assured Beckett it was safe, but couldn't shake the aftertaste of his first meeting with Naem. It'd been all he could do not to call this off. Rodney had sensed his brooding and responded with his own, swearing that they were going to get culled or something when they were there. Teyla pointed out the world had been culled two months ago and wasn't likely to be again for a while. Ronon had grimaced and muttered, "Unless another Hive ship invades the other's territory."

Something they all knew was a possibility.

The townsfolk greeted them warmly, like before. It was the one thing John did trust; that their presence here, what they offered, was making a difference. They had questions about the new plows, and the chemicals that killed stumps, making them easier to get out of the ground. The kids begged to hear stories of their missions against the wraith. Some of the adults, too.

The day passed in a whirlwind of helping, talking, and playing. Sheppard showed the kids how to play soccer with a ball they'd made out of animal hide, while Rodney gathered up other kids and demonstrated what happened when you added water to an acid. Beckett scolded him about safety, but Rodney had found a niche with these kids, unlike others, because these wanted to learn about _science_.

Teyla and Ronon had offered to show fighting techniques, both of them knowing it wouldn't make a difference against the wraith, but it made the people here feel that much more hopeful, and hope wasn't something John was interested in taking away. Worlds like this, it was all they had.

That night, Naem joined them for dinner. Sheppard felt the king's eyes on him and tried to convey his worries to Ronon, but the runner and Teyla were engrossed in conversation. John hadn't shared his reservations about Naem to either of them, because he'd aired them at the top, with Elizabeth, and now he regretted that choice. He got the feeling the king was planning something and John didn't know how, or why, or even what Naem hoped to accomplish, but he definitely got the feeling something was going down, and he hated being left out of the loop.

The food was good, the drinks, more so. By the time the dinner was finished, John began to think he'd get a lucky break, because it'd all passed without any interruptions or complications. The party broke up, and the townsfolk broke away to their individual homes, while Sheppard led his team and Beckett to the bungalow they'd been given for the night. It'd belonged to a young couple that had been culled together, and John couldn't shake the creepiness he felt in it. For all he knew, these guys were still alive in a Hive ship, cocooned, waiting to be fed upon.

When he made sure everyone was safely in, he barred the door, and set watch, himself first. Sheppard shrugged out of his jacket but kept his P90 on hand, propping himself at the table; his feet kicked against the carved chair, arm leaning on the smooth planks of the table. The fire had been lit by a villager, seeing how it was autumn here, and the nights carried more of a chill than the day. When John grew sleepy, he felt the first niggle of alarm. It wasn't that he didn't ever get sleepy on watch, sure, he had a million times before, but this time, when he tried to get up, his limbs didn't move with their usual coordination. Everything seemed fuzzy, and disconnected.

Drugged – he'd been drugged!

The little house had two bedrooms; behind one door was Ronon and McKay; in the other, slept Beckett and Teyla. John tried to make it, but halfway there, he fell to his knees. That's when he realized he'd left his gun at the table, and the door was being broken, the sounds of fire burning in the background of his mind, before he slumped into unconsciousness.

OoO

Elizabeth couldn't process what she was hearing. John, dead? The others – taken by the Wraith?

Naem's voice was harsh over the radio as he reported the death toll from the latest culling. They'd been caught unaware at night. Twenty seven of his people, gone. His guards had been there, on patrol, but they hadn't been able to do any good with swords. There was no body to return, the fire had collapsed the small house on top of him, and the king could only report on what he'd been told second hand.

The attack had begun after everyone had gone to sleep. Buildings began to burn after the strafing runs from the Wraith ships, people still in them, and those that woke, tried desperately to rescue those that hadn't. Sheppard had dragged all four members of his team from the burning bungalow, only to run back in, for what, Naem couldn't guess, and then the wooden roof had collapsed; the inferno burned everything inside to ashes. The outer stone had acted like a kiln, the fuel within -- furniture, wooden shelving, doors and firewood stacked inside for easier reach -- made the heat unbearable.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Weir, for the loss of your people, but we are no longer able to uphold our end of the trade agreement. Further, we have decided to barricade our Stargate, so that the Wraith will have one less avenue to continue their destruction. Please do not send anyone through, as they will be killed on impact." The audio feed had ended, the wormhole shut down, and Elizabeth had turned away from the tech, and walked into her office, not saying a word.

Carson, Rodney, Teyla, Ronon and Sheppard – lost, and Naem expected her to buy his story without even a thought.

This king did not know them half so well as he thought. Her hands were tied until the Daedalus returned in a little over a month. She'd order a MALP sent through after Lorne was ready, but she believed Naem would follow through on blocking their gate.

When Caldwell arrived, she'd personally pay a visit to Naem, and find out what had happened to her people. Until then, she was going to list them as missing in action, not killed, despite Naem's claims of John's demise. Never that, not until she had the undeniable proof in front of her.

She brought up the form on her laptop, and began typing the names, entering the date and status: MIA.

It wasn't until she'd finished all five records that she closed the program, turned to face the wall, and crammed a knuckle against her teeth, trying to keep it together. Her rage mingled equally with her fear. They'd been lost before, many times over, and she'd believed Sheppard dead, also, only for him to return, time and time again. This wouldn't be any different. It wouldn't.

OoO

"Where's my team?" rasped Sheppard.

He'd woken, unrestrained, in a room that he didn't recognize, but judging from the massive gray blocks of stone, expertly smoothed mortar, rugs and wall hangings – he had a pretty good idea. Naem's manse, and in some private room, at that.

The guard remained silent, standing to the side of the door. He had his hand on the scabbard of his sword, and the cold eyes let Sheppard know the guard would use it if he had to.

The bed he was on was soft, silk sheets, the blanket was thick and Sheppard guessed it was pretty warm and luxurious at night. If he hadn't felt sick from whatever they'd drugged him with, he might've been impressed, but as it was, he was just pissed. There was a privacy screen in the far corner. Ornate trees, bare of their summer cover, had been painted on a beige background, broad strokes, so that the trunk began at the floor, and the branches almost touched the ceiling. Guessing at what was behind, John rolled from the bed, fought back the queasiness that rolled with him, and shuffled behind, needing to relieve himself or be embarrassed more than the whole 'drugged by the aliens on another world' had already done.

When he finished, and had stepped around the screen into the main room again, he was even more irritated to find that Naem along with three more guards was there. The king watched his sluggish movements with the same hawk eyes he'd used on Sheppard every time they'd interacted, and even when they hadn't -- least, not directly. Naem had always watched him with wary consideration, and it was why Sheppard had never had a good feeling about any of this.

"Look – Your Majesty, I think there's been a misunderstanding." Yeah, the one where John went back to Atlantis and let Elizabeth consider making an agreement with Naem in the first place, but what's done is done.

Naem was wearing a more casual outfit; trousers of blue, with a plain cotton blouse of light gray. It made John even more worried. This wasn't for show, this was all Naem. "Why did your people attack mine?"

"What?" John did a double take. "We didn't attack anyone!"

"Last night, while my people slept unsuspecting, your team began a planned attack, burning out homes, crops and lives. We caught them in the process." Naem moved to a dresser along a wall. He watched as Naem withdrew a vial of liquid, instantly worried. Something bad was going down, and John knew he'd better figure it out fast. "I'd suspected as much was coming, but didn't expect your own people to drug you. While you slept, the others in your team organized chaos upon mine."

Sheppard had refused to sit on the bed, wanting to distance himself from Naem, but if there'd ever been anything else – chairs or a couch -- Naem must've had them removed. His knees were shaky from the earlier drug, his stomach, even more so, and it was a struggle just to stay on his feet, let alone try to sort out what was going on here.

"You're lying." Yeah, original John. The bad man is lying. That'll win an Emmy.

Naem's bare feet padded across the room, sinking into the plush carpet. "They confessed before the First Adjudicate earlier this morning." Naem's voice didn't even waver during the announcement, which made Sheppard believe he wasn't lying about that, at least, but it didn't make sense. He knew his people hadn't done it, so what was going on here?

Feeling the hard edge of anger take over, Sheppard growled, "Let me guess, they've been sentenced to die at sunset."

Naem gestured to his guards and they quickly moved in. John tried to put up a fight, but he was still recovering from the earlier effects, and they had him subdued and pinned in an embarrassingly short amount of time and effort, and on the bed. Panic clawed up his throat.

"No, Colonel. Murdering the guilty is barbaric. They've been sentenced to a life of reparation. They will serve in the fields, in the manse and in the town. They will rebuild, care and help those who suffered, and then keep helping, because everything they do will barely be enough to feed the families that lost their crops last night, or their homes."

The king ordered his guards, "His mouth."

One of them switched his hand that was holding onto John's arm for a knee, keeping Sheppard pinned, and forced his palm up under John's jaw, prying it open with a painfully strong grip. Helpless, he watched as Naem poured the contents into his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but only got a little out before the guard slammed his mouth shut with the heel of his hand, pinched his nose, and waited.

Sheppard couldn't breathe, and the liquid was burning his tongue, pooling at the back of his throat. He held it, tried to hold on, pretended to swallow, but the guard never removed his hand. Finally, as dots danced in his vision, John swallowed for real. The guard listened to the nod from the king, and released the hold on Sheppard's face and nose. He coughed, his throat now burning equally with his tongue.

"What is that?"

Even though he wasn't in a position to demand anything, he tried.

"We don't use physical restraints. Chemical is much more effective." Naem again, nodded to his guards, and they left, to return to the door. "As for you, your punishment is to be thus; you will be treated with kindness and respect. You will be my heir, my successor. I will see that you learn everything you must. In time, maybe you will no longer need the chemical restraint, but until then, you will receive daily doses, and for every one I must force down your throat, your team will suffer a whipping. Today we'll start with the woman."

John lurched off the bed, tired and dizzy. "You son of a bitch! You never told me -- do you think I would've fought if I'd known?"

Naem's eyes cut into him as he said coldly, "Yes."

The sucky thing was, Naem was probably right.

OoO

Naem had Sheppard follow him out of his chambers. This was a path he regretted he had to take, but the other avenues had been denied to him. His entire life had been a series of losses; his parents, his siblings, his wife and child, his people – the former had been from natural causes, a disease plagued the royal line, the latter from the wraith. It was unacceptable to suffer the loss of his people's love, devotion, and trust as the final end, before he was even buried.

When you have nothing left to lose, anything to get what he had back seemed a small price to pay. He had selected the guards he needed, the ones he knew whose family had been serving his since recorded history began. Naem explained the outsider's insidious plot – to lull the township, and then stage a coup. Many of the guards had initially protested with diplomatically caged comments of disbelief, but some had agreed with Naem from the beginning. They did not trust this Sheppard any more than Naem had upon the first meeting.

In order to foil Sheppard's plan, they would attack at night. Incite as much fear and chaos, and do so in the guise of Sheppard's own. He had ordered John and the others drugged, then while his guards started a few isolated fires and snuck away, another group went into Sheppard's bungalow and stole their jackets and weapons, shooting in the cover of darkness, and amidst all the chaos, his people never knew any different.

His guards had rushed in, and captured Sheppard and his team, hauling them off to the cells in the manse, but that had already happened earlier, right after the fires had started, and none of his people were any the wiser about the true events. Naem had singled Sheppard out; as the leader, their ruler, and Naem knew he was the one man that could keep the others strong throughout their enforced slavery. No, John was too dangerous to let loose, even in that limited capacity, and Naem would be keeping him near.

The idea to raise Sheppard up as his successor was a stroke of genius. He had no one left, and the people had believed in Sheppard.

Using that belief, Naem had already told his people that Sheppard was innocent. He had met with Doctor McKay, Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex and this Carson Beckett. He had explained the situation for them. Sheppard was hostage against their cooperation. If they acted out of line, he would have Sheppard tortured in every foul way one could imagine, and then he would be killed.

When the large man, Ronon, had slammed an angry fist into the wall, Naem had almost believed his ruse was not going to work, but then the other, McKay, he had stepped forward, his face drained of color and said, "What do we have to do?"

A full confession that their leader, this Weir, had ordered them to attack in hopes of taking over the town instead of continuing to trade fairly. That Sheppard had refused, and they had carried it out on their own, for fear of retribution when they returned home. Then they had agree to the terms of reparation.

Afterwards, Naem had ordered the Stargate sealed. That was not an easy undertaking, and the villagers left that had the knowledge met with Naem's guards, and together they arranged a pully system that brought the mammoth structure to the ground. He wasn't sure if this was effective, but Sheppard's leader had not tried to come through and he had contacted her with his story hours ago.

They walked to the town in silence. Sheppard was affected enough by the drug that he wouldn't be able to do more than make a weak swing with his fist. The Lumival had been passed down through generations for its ability to affect an individual's limbs and coordination, yet still allow them to think clearly. It was used as a form of control over criminals, more humane than death.

The sentenced victims were then put to work for the town, requiring a daily dose be taken for the rest of their lives. Most preferred it to the other option, which was being hung. There were too many hardships to allow the imposition of feeding and caring for a body that would not contribute. What use was imprisonment? A drain on resources. Either the guilty would do what they were told, take the chemical restraint, and benefit society, possibly earning a pardon in a suitable number of years (or not, depending on the severity), or they would be killed.

Naem truly did hate doing this. Sheppard's only crime was having the misfortune to offer something to his people that he had not been able to. To give them hope again so soon after a culling.

When they arrived, the villagers crowded around Naem, so much so, that his guards had to brandish swords and push them back. There were angry shouts, demands to understand why Sheppard's people had done this – as for Sheppard, he was busy scanning the town. Taking in the burnt homes, a body laid to rest on a pyre, waiting for sunset when it could be safely sent to the Ancestors.

The man was the only casualty. He had died after saving his family from their burning home, and Naem felt a great deal of regret. He had done everything he could to ensure that no lives were lost, but sometimes there was a price to be paid for the future.

Naem watched Sheppard as he continued to scan the town, and then his eyes found his teammates, working on pulling debris from a burnt home. McKay walked out, hauling a timber with half of it burnt to ash and crumbling in his grasp, while the other part of the beam was solid and heavy. Sheppard's jaw tightened, and he turned to Naem. "I want to talk to them."

The villagers grew quiet, then, surprised at Sheppard's temerity. Naem was not a callous king, but there were rules. Naem ignored it, knowing it'd have to be dealt with later.

"Listen, please, everyone – we have suffered greatly, but we've done so before, and survived. We have overcome many tragedies and we are still here! We will not be beaten!"

Naem was pleased to see them respond to his speech. For the first time since the culling, they were listening to him. Naem nodded to his guards to bring the others over. They were dirty, and suffering from the effects of the Lumival. "Take the woman; twenty strikes."

He'd promised Sheppard he would, and he had to follow through with it, even though it sickened a part of him even more. Sheppard had to understand that Naem did not make idle threats, and especially in the beginning, he needed to get the man doing as he was told, to begin the process of obedience and submission.

The roar of outrage was palpable. From the spoken shouts that erupted from Ronon Dex, Rodney McKay and Carson Beckett, to the silent promise that Naem would pay boring into him from Sheppard.

His own people were uncertain. Public flogging wasn't a common punishment. It had been used before, when the Lumival was not enough to keep a criminal's tongue polite, but this woman, this Teyla, she was a soft spoken leader in her own right, and Naem knew she had raised no ill word other than defend those with her.

"You may wonder what she has done -- this woman was responsible for drugging her leader. A most terrible crime, to lift a finger against your own, and I felt I must make a strong statement against this action, in addition to the sentence of reparation."

Teyla Emmagen's eyes found Sheppard's, and Naem read the desperation in his and the strength in hers. Would Sheppard act in her behalf? He turned to stare at the others – would they be foolish, too?

She was tied to a post often used for party tents, her shirt stripped from her. She kept her chin high, and grabbed the post with calm strength. Her team held their tongues, and Naem knew he had crossed one hurdle. He called a halt at fifteen, and let Sheppard know with a look that he did so only because the man had done nothing. Sheppard would learn, or they would all pay.

Village women brought Teyla a sheet and untied her bonds.

There was resentment in their eyes, contempt, as there would be, in light of the losses in food and homes and one of the people, but they cared for her anyway. Naem watched as they moved her to the Home of Healing.

When they were out of sight, and the crowd began to disperse, Naem offered more words of encouragement before he walked over to the others of Sheppard's team, stopping.

"Work hard and there will be no harm done."

Naem's words were a message they understood. Any wrong doing on their part, and Sheppard would suffer.

"Are you all right?" Sheppard asked, staring at them. "Why did you --"

"Silence!" Naem turned to Sheppard. "If you talk with the guilty, you will be seen as guilty. You are my heir, act like it!"

Naem knew the calculated effect had worked. The others appeared shocked, and upset, with what he had revealed. It would be a slow process, but with time, Naem would have this Sheppard fully alienated from those he had arrived with. Isolated, drugged, Naem would make Sheppard into a man capable of taking over for him. His father had told him once to keep his friends under his roof, but his enemies in his bed. The lesson was one he had learned well. Even then, there had been rumblings against his father's inability to make a difference when the Wraith culled – questions as to why the royal family had always been safe from the horrible fate. It had only been the queen's passing that had staved off an inquiry, and Naem had never fully believed the timing was coincidental.

OoO

Sheppard felt weird. He'd fought off the drug, and failed, and now his entire body felt weighted, slow. He knew if he tried to fight, his arms would move like they were in water. He was seething inside, had been since he'd been easily overcome by the guards, and forced to walk behind Naem into the village.

The homes were burnt, the body real, and since he knew they hadn't done it, despite the supposed confession, that made him wonder who did? And why had his team confessed? Someone had drugged him, maybe drugged them all, which is why they were able to convince the townsfolk that it'd been them, but nothing could've convinced his team to confess to a crime they hadn't committed, except – John's eyes slid intently onto Naem – unless they'd been threatened similarly; do as you are told or the others will suffer the consequences.

If his team had one fault, it was caring, too much. They would do more than they should to keep each other safe, and it was a fault they all shared, some probably worse than others, but enough that he could see something like this happening, and if that were the case, then who was doing the manipulating? Naem, most likely – because it didn't make sense for this king to take in one of the supposed criminals, make him heir to his kingdom, and keep him segregated. This entire thing made no sense.

When Naem had called his team over and ordered Teyla's whipping, John had almost lost it. They'd been in a lot of bad places before, but this was one of the worst. Teyla's shirt was pulled off and Sheppard was thankful that, at the least, her back was to them, and she'd be spared that humiliation – then again, Teyla was Athosian, and she handled almost everything with a quiet dignity, and he figured she'd face this the same way. Sheppard caught the other's eyes and shook his head. If they tried anything now, he knew Teyla would pay more for it. The feeling was unshakable, and they all must have felt it, because despite the rage from Ronon, the disbelief on McKay's face, and the disgust on Beckett's, they remained quiet.

While she was whipped, he tuned out the sounds of the leather striking flesh. John instead focused on the blue birds flocking into a tree still standing stubbornly beside a burnt house. He thought about how they'd first met, and how Teyla had helped him through the whole bug incident in the Jumper. She'd become a stalwart fourth of his team, and Sheppard knew that she'd rather be the one up there than any of them, it was just her way. For that matter, they'd all damn near feel the same, except Rodney, who would rant to himself that he was insane for volunteering and do it anyway, and maybe Beckett wasn't quite there yet on the self-sacrifice. That came from being together, facing death, and depending on each other to save your life time and time again. They'd each made their individual mistakes, but as a team, they were making it work.

The cessation of the whip drew John out of his internal thought, and he saw the women that had just yesterday greeted Teyla with laughter and warmth, now approach with a blanket and shirt, their faces full of loathing and anger. They didn't hit, or curse, but quietly helped Teyla away. Sheppard hated to see the silent accusations in what the townsfolk believed had happened everywhere he looked. They thought his team guilty; him innocent. God, he wanted to hit something.

A cold gust of wind blew, and Sheppard shivered. They were still dressed in their uniforms, but his team, like him, had been divested of jackets and vests. T-shirts, pants and boots. It was better than nothing, he supposed.

Naem began to walk towards the manse again, and John was torn, wanting to stay with his team, to make sure Teyla was okay. He looked longingly but found only Beckett looking his way. Rodney and Ronon were moving again into the house, to keep doing their _penance_. Think, John, there had to be something he could do to get them out of this pit they'd apparently fallen into.

The nudging from one of the guards stopped his wondering, and he stumbled after Naem.

The road from the town to the manse wasn't long, but it was curvy and rutted, and for half of the distance, meandered with a small river. Tall reeds grew up along the shore, grass on the other side, broken by broadleaf trees with leaves of yellow, red and orange. The dried up deadfall crunched under his feet as they kept walking steadily up, the slight rise not enough to normally tire Sheppard, but after the drug from the night before combined with the one from this morning, he was breathing hard. He spied purple flowers spattering the field like a careless painter had flung his brush against a canvas. Elizabeth liked flowers; purple, red and blue. He'd brought her some before, after the botany rep on the mission had given the okay. She didn't often get to go off world.

Taking another slow step on the road, Sheppard wished she hadn't come here.

The tall manse rose up ahead, the river parted company with the road, and Sheppard had a heavy feeling settling deep in his chest. After they walked through the large-planked double doors that rose from floor to ceiling, Naem ordered the guards to escort John to the library. It was time for his lessons to begin.

OoO

The room was large, the ceiling made of domed glass, and John wondered how many times they'd had to replace that. Shelves of books lined up like tin soldiers in rows, and three large tables the size of the briefing room on Atlantis stretched across the length, wall to wall.

A short woman, on the heavier side of plump, bustled forward, her dress swishing with her fast stride. She bowed and said, "Prince Sheppard."

Prince? He frowned at her. "Colonel Sheppard," he corrected.

The brown curls that framed her head and spilled on her shoulders shook irritably. "Whatever was your past was left in the village last night. Your companions did irrevocable wrong, and though you were innocent, His Majesty has declared you will never return to your world. Your penance will be to learn how to rule, to learn how to inspire devotion, and to give our world the hope we were meant to have."

John stared down at his uniform, surprised Naem hadn't taken it, too. Maybe that was the second act. "Look, miss --"

"My name is Ascaria."

"Ascaria, then." Sheppard gave her his warmest, seductive smile. "My companions didn't do anything wrong, and I didn't either. This is all a big misunderstanding, so, if you don't mind --"

Her brown eyes hardened in her plain face. "Sit down."

If it hadn't been for the guard's interest over her harsh tone, he wouldn't have, but Sheppard didn't see any reason for pushing his luck. He wouldn't say he was afraid of Naem, but he was definitely wary of the man, and right now he needed to get a feel for where to go from here. This Ascaria wasn't going to give him much of a chance to do that. "So, who are you and why am I here?" He tried a different angle.

"I am the historian, and you are my pupil. Normally, a prince of the throne would have been raised on the history of his family, but this is an usual situation, and His Majesty has declared you are to learn from the previous rulers, so that you may be a wise king."

"I'm not going to be king."

But with another sharp look from Ascaria, he sat on the hard stone bench. Why have wooden tables and stone seats? It was cold, and leeched through his pants quickly, and when she brought a large volume ten times as thick as War and Peace, dropping it in front of him, Sheppard looked upward, incredulous.

"I'm not learning this." He opened the dusty tome, and blew on the first page, staring down at the writings on the vellum. "I can't even read this."

Ascaria sucked in an annoyed breath. The arched stained glass of the dome sprinkled rainbows on her white dress, and it made Sheppard get even more pissed off because he'd been in a similar situation before, and at least that time, the woman had had a thing for Rodney, and it'd been enjoyable doing the whole Indiana Jones thing – until the Genii showed up.

Ascaria, though, was a far way from being friendly, and she was looking to be a hard sell on any kind of pity he might try to garner, seeking an ally to help him find some kind of way out of this and get back to his team.

"You can't read?" She said it like an accusation of illiteracy. She hovered over him, smelling like laundry soap and dust.

"I can read, but this isn't my language."

Why the hell was he even here? John still couldn't figure out how this had happened – how in the span of twenty-four hours they'd gone from visiting allies to…what? Prisoners, prince-in-training? It didn't make any sense, why would someone go through the trouble to frame his team, and what threat had been made against his team to make a false confession?

"I said, I'll translate for you, but you'll have to learn to read our language." Ascaria thumped an irritable hand on the book. "Were you even listening to me?"

Sheppard watched dust motes fall lazily in the sunbeam. "Not really, no." He didn't owe this woman anything. In fact, he was getting kind of pissed at her attitude. It wasn't like he'd asked for this. It was exactly the opposite.

John didn't want to be here; he wanted answers, he wanted his team, and away from Naem's threatening presence, Sheppard felt a lot braver. Ascaria wasn't giving off the dangerous vibes he'd gotten from Naem from the beginning.

She was giving off a lot of anger, definitely, but danger, not even close.

When she stormed out of the room, John thought he'd see if he could walk around the manse, do some exploring, but the guards stepped in front of the exit, and Sheppard turned back towards the books. So, waste of time, because the room could be filled with a detailed escape plan for all the good it'd do him. He couldn't read a thing.

OoO

"Sire, the early reports indicate the crops will be enough for the winter, but Kaleb has concerns about silo four."

Naem took the paper from Gaemal. Kaleb's broad, loose script detailed worries about the stone at the base of silo four, how cracks threatened to allow vermin infestation to occur. A simple enough problem, and he growled under his breath, wondering why the man was incapable of ordering such a simple repair without Naem holding his hand. "Tell him to order the repair work." Stretching on the hard throne, Naem rubbed the ache in the middle of his forehead. "Gaemal, tell Kaleb I do not want such proof of inadequacy in his job again. He did not need my seal for this work."

Gaemal nodded stiffly, and bowed, before turning, and walking down the carpet runner that spanned from the broad entrance to the throne dais. Sighing, Naem found his brooding thoughts shifting to Sheppard, wondering how Ascaria's tutelage was coming.

He did not wonder long. Ascaria approached from the private entrance, bowing, her face troubled. "Sire, this man --"

"Prince, Ascaria."

She dipped her head again, apologetic. "Prince -- he is not cooperative. He does not know how to read, and is not listening or trying to learn from me."

Naem was not surprised, but he did not like it anymore because of it. He had judged for himself that Sheppard was the true danger. The man would not be easily turned away from who he had been. A part of him knew this was foolhardy. Sheppard was dangerous, deadly. He had seen it in his eyes from the beginning; bottomless depths.

But Naem had not lived and ruled for so long without learning that once you begin on a path, there is no turning back. He had chosen a fork in the road that would lead to the successful end of his life. Naem had set in motion a chain of events that could only end in one way.

Sheppard's power molded and shaped into his world's. Whatever it took, Naem would do it.

He smiled kindly at the woman he had set for Sheppard's tutor. "Tomorrow, he will be ready." Naem had felt half inclined to punish Ascaria for her failure; a teacher that could not get a student to learn was not much of a teacher, but in this situation, he would consider Sheppard's age and the circumstances at hand.

Turning to his guard, Naem ordered Sheppard taken to his private room. He had hoped to ease the man into the rigors of training, but Naem should have understood that Sheppard would need his first lesson sooner rather than later.

When Naem was finished with his duties, he would have to give the prince his first lesson in obedience to the crown.

OoO

Teyla felt a pain that went far deeper than the wounds in her back. The public flogging was not the source, by any means. The women's disdain and anger, part of it, but more than anything, the hopelessness she felt tonight was too much of it.

"Teyla, you need to eat." Ronon held a bowl of stew in front of her.

She did not want to eat, or sleep, or do anything. She was angry, very, very angry. This man, this Naem, she felt certain he was behind the events. They had woken in the cell, and each one knew they had been drugged without Carson verifying it. John had not been in the cell with them, and her fear had turned to ice inside.

"I am not hungry."

She continued to stare at the fire. The same bungalow they had stayed in the night before, the same one where Sheppard had been taken from them -- who had ordered for them to be given this as a permanent residence? Every day and night would be a reminder.

After clearing debris all day, the others had repaired the door and cleaned up the mess from last night. Teyla had been allowed to spend the afternoon recovering in the Home of Healing, but it had been quiet and stressful, as the women tending her had been full of their own anger.

Teyla's denials had hung on her lips and only the image of Sheppard standing behind Naem kept them from spilling forth. She believed the man capable of hurting Sheppard a great deal.

"We must find a way off this world." She looked away from the flames and found them watching her. "There will be no rescue, and Colonel Sheppard is in grave danger."

"Did you not understand about the 'gate?" Carson smiled sadly. "Lass, I don't think there will be any escape. We'll be waiting for the Daedalus to arrive."

"If Caldwell doesn't blow it up in a space battle," McKay cracked.

He was staring into the fire as well, his face twisted and bitter. Betrayal was still fresh on his mind, and Teyla was certain he was thinking about those times when they had taught the town's children, and instructed the adults – and the people had so easily believed them capable of the destruction brought upon them last night. Their innocence had not been argued by any, not even Rolos, who had listened avidly as Rodney had explained how a windmill worked.

"Even with this drug, I can take them." Ronon cracked his knuckles and stared malevolently at the door.

"Maybe," conceded Carson. "One, two tops, but after that Son, they'll have you down, and then what? Then Colonel Sheppard will receive God knows what at the bloody bastard's hand." He stepped to the sink on the wall opposite the fireplace, and set the ceramic bowl into the water waiting. "No, we need to wait for the Daedalus."

OoO

When John was returned to the same room he'd woken up in, he'd had a bad feeling. But then the afternoon had waned with him by himself. He'd recounted flight procedures for every aircraft he'd ever flown and still had time to waste. Because of the drug he'd been given, physical activity wasn't exactly fun. He'd tried to do some jumping jacks and almost threw up from the spinning it caused in his head.

Naem arrived just when he'd decided he needed to create a more elaborate procedure for the Jumpers, because, of all the aircraft he'd reeled through in his mind, that'd been the one he loved the most and the one that had been the fastest to do.

Without speaking, Naem moved to the dresser. John tensed, sitting up, slow enough to keep his stomach under control. He hadn't eaten all day and the drug wasn't sitting well on an empty stomach. Instead of another vial, the king withdrew a lounge type robe, shucked out of his formal tunic that he'd apparently put on when Sheppard had been in his failed tutoring session, and then strode across the chambers to the bathroom.

Water splashed, then Naem was back. The room wasn't massive, but it wasn't small, either. The bed was in the middle of the far right wall. Silk bedding, four thick carved dark wooden posts rose high above, almost to the ceiling. The rug was oval and covered almost the entire chamber with what looked like a family crest woven into it with different colored threads of burgundy, blue and black. The wall with the door had the dresser, and it had a large mirror on top with one side of dressers, the other had a cabinet. On the left wall was a table, and now there were chairs, whereas when he'd woken up before they had been gone. A game table of some sort was there now, and another cabinet of some kind behind it.

This was Naem's home turf, and they both knew it. What Sheppard didn't know is why he kept being brought back here.

The robe was loosely tied around the king's hips, his chest hair showing. The dark eyes raked over him, and Sheppard felt that deep sense of foreboding kicking in. "Uh, look, I don't know how things --"

"Silence!"

Naem's roar rolled out like thunder and died down. The king went to the cabinet behind the game table and withdrew a clear canister filled with amber liquid, and a glass. He poured himself a small amount, and drank it quickly, before slamming it down onto the surface of the cabinet, and not even the small embroidered cloth that matched the design on the rug could dampen the noise.

"I will only say this once. You are my heir. I've chosen you because of the power I see within. You, John Sheppard, were born to lead, but I will teach you how to rule."

Naem poured himself another drink and drank it equally fast. When he put the glass down this time it was softer, and he walked away from the bottle and table, and approached Sheppard. "Whatever questions you have, disbeliefs, previous sympathies and loyalties, for your sake, they stop now. Nothing from before can remain; to be king you must bow to me first."

John sat stiffly. "I don't want to be king," he seethed. "You're forgetting who made this proclamation."

"And you forget who holds the power here!" Naem grabbed Sheppard's shirt and yanked him to his feet.

He had to be in his fifties, and yet the strength in the grip, John knew it'd break bones. His bones, and it took all the restraint he had in him to shut up and let the mad king have his day.

Sensing Sheppard's capitulation, Naem released his shirt, and walked again, to the other dresser, the one with the mirror. He opened a cabinet and withdrew restraints, and turned to John. "Ascaria had an unfavorable report for me. I want you to understand that must not happen again. Your job as Prince is to learn. I will hold your team's welfare against your cooperation, but after seeing your ability to remain calm in light of their punishment, I fear the beatings you would incur in their names would be too great for my people to accept without protest, remember, I said we are not barbaric. And I do not blame you for your impulses. They will not die easily," he said. Stepping closer to Sheppard he spoke in almost a whisper of steel. "But they will die."

John had done the math. He'd heard the rumor on his way to the library that the 'gate had been sealed, and he'd figured out based on the fact that the Daedalus had left Atlantis three days ago, that he had to survive at least a month, probably a month and a half considering turn around; problems with loading new supplies and personnel, maybe even two months if the ship needed repairs and/or Caldwell felt his crew needed a couple weeks R&R. There'd been talk about it; all the battles of late had been wearing down the flight crew.

Which meant, no rescue, not for a while, and he was staring down the barrel of a very bad situation that, at any wrong move, might blow up in his face, and take his team down with him. Based off of what Sheppard was piecing together, Naem was capable of doing anything to achieve the goals he wanted. And for whatever reason, Naem wanted him to assume some kind of sick role as his Prince, to go along with this farce of being the heir to the crown – why?

"I realize I was a little…distracted," began Sheppard.

"Shush," Naem soothed, his anger disappearing. He pulled John to his feet, the drug making him move before his brain even realized it.

Sheppard was led to the center of the room and there the king pushed his foot down hard on the rug with a picture of a sword. A device dropped from the ceiling. A beam with two large eye bolts, and chains. "Take off your clothes."

It felt surreal, and bizarre, and he didn't want to do it. In fact, John didn't do it. He stood stubbornly in the spot and didn't say a word. He had a really, really bad feeling about this.

"John," Naem said, strictly. "You will be allowed your undergarments, now take off your shirt, boots and pants. I am not going to hurt you."

And that's why you've got a personal restraint system built into your ceiling. Sheppard could think of a lot of reasons for what hung above his head, and none of them ended in a pain free experience. Still, his eyes caught sight of the guards and he debated what was worse -- doing what he was told, or being undressed by someone else. Really, put that way, it wasn't much of a debate, and he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the rug. His boots took a little more work and the relief from having them off for the first time in a day was mixed with the unpleasant process of taking his pants off next. His socks stuck to his feet from the sweat, and when he was done, he shivered and felt generally pissed, humiliated and more than a little vulnerable.

This wasn't the time or the place to lose his temper, and Sheppard kept repeating those damn flight procedures desperately while Naem locked his wrists in shackles, then locked them into the chains. His feet were free, but his arms pulled up over his head. He couldn't sit, lay, only stand, and Sheppard had a sinking suspicion it was going to be a long night.

When he was locked in tight, Naem stood back, a look of almost pity across his face. The eagle eyes were back, and he assessed John's position with approval. Satisfied, he nodded to the guards, who then turned and left the room, latching the door behind them. Naem returned to take one more drink before moving to his bed. "I am sorry the night will be long and uncomfortable, and I know you are hungry, but I will tell you more about that in the morning, when I feel you will be more amenable to my rules for you. Good night, John. Oh, and I wish for you to call me Naem, please, not Majesty or King – for you are my heir and it is allowed. Now, rest. Tomorrow you will learn."

Naem spared one more look at Sheppard, shivering and strung up, before blowing out the single candle left lit by the bedside, then shifted in his bed.

John listened to the sounds of the guards walking their patrols, Naem's slow, even breathing, and wished like hell he could put a stop to all of it, and even more so to the pain in his shoulders, wrists, arms and legs. As night wore on, Sheppard prayed for morning to arrive, because the cold in the room deepened, and grew. He shivered, which made his joints ache more.


	2. Chapter 2

Naem had learned a great deal about how to change an enemy to a friend. His father had been a good mentor in that respect, as strong of a king as there'd ever been. Haem had explained that killing was a waste of life, that everybody was needed to keep their people strong, because the wraith took too many and their people had grown too few.

His father had also taught him that having a full prison was dangerous, because it showed a lack of leadership. If a king couldn't control his people, he didn't deserve to wear the Crown of Autumn, the circlet of yellowed leaves that represented the promise between the royal family and those protected under that rule. A promise that he'd memorized as the first lesson he'd ever been taught.

_In the days of Spring,  
My watch has begun,  
In the days of Summer,  
I shall protect from all harm,  
In the days of Autumn,  
There will be another,  
So that the days of Winter shall never come._

Each king made the vow upon taking the throne, each promise a sacred pact, and Naem had come perilously close to failing. The wraith, first, then Sheppard's people, and yet, if he could harness Sheppard's power, bend his strengths like the broadleaf tree that gave to the wind, then Naem would be able to not only keep his vows, but leave a new legacy for his people.

Sheppard would be free to make contact again with his people, and having accepted the responsibility of the crown, he would be in position to gather weapons and safety that Naem could not. Surely, the material losses and one life were little enough to ask for a safe future for the many?

All these thoughts ran through his mind as he listened to Sheppard stir in the chains. Naem knew the ache, he'd been there before, when his father was displeased with things he had done during his training.

Never fail to teach; it was a pact each member of the royal family took with his or her children, and with his proclamation, Sheppard was now of the royal line. He would have to guide the man carefully down the road of submission using every lesson Haem had used on him, and others, and it would be even more of a challenge, because unlike Naem, Sheppard was from another world, and the man would not be so easily broken from his past.

This was not the season for second thoughts, and Naem pushed them away. He had steered his feet to this end, and this is where the road would lead.

John…the name was strong, like the man. John Sheppard would make a fine king for his people. Naem would only have to be king enough to show him that.

He woke before his usual time, and slipped from his bed. John hung limply, not quite asleep but not fully awake, either. Naem went to the screened area, only for the basic of personal needs. He had a room for bathing separate, but this was for any immediate need during the night. Splashing water on his face, he patted his skin dry, used the toilet and left, leaving Sheppard for now. He needed to have breakfast brought to his chambers, and he needed Ascaria to begin preparations for John's lessons. He had neglected to realize that Sheppard was unable to read their written word, even though they spoke in the same language.

The cooking staff was hard at work and Naem gave his orders before moving to the animal room and greeting his pair of hunting birds.

"I have neglected you two, have I not?"

They were identical twins, bore from the same mother on the same eve, and said to be a good omen for his future. Naem had begun to believe it had been the opposite – but now, he knew he had chosen wisely. The birds and this Sheppard.

"I will have Karael fly you today, but as for me, I shall be busy." Naem stroked their feathered torsos and tossed them both a live rodent from the cage, watching indulgently as they tore into the small furry animals.

By the time he returned to his chamber, John was standing tiredly. His lidded eyes watched him with the same panther like grace he had admired and feared when he had first met the man.

"First, your Lumival," said Naem, moving to retrieve another vial. He stepped in front of John and waited, not ordering, because he had already told Sheppard what he expected.

Naem knew there were many levels of defiance. The only one he had broken was the surface. Sheppard opened his mouth, but his eyes, muscles, every inch of the man screamed this was taken under duress. But Naem also knew there were stages to breaking a man, and he had already won the first round.

Taking the empty vial, he sat it on the dresser where his servants would clean, refill and place it back in the drawer with the others. He took the keys and unlocked John, expecting the man to fall, like he did, his limbs unable to recover in time to keep him on his feet. Naem gestured to his guards to help John to the bed. He knew Sheppard was tired, exhausted, and now a new dose of Lumival would run through his limbs and make them weaker and slower. John had not eaten in over a day, he had only water given to him, and now Naem felt it was time to start the next level.

"You are hungry," he said.

Sheppard rolled on the bed, still trying to recover from the pain caused by the release of his bonds. He shivered on silk, doubled over and tried to not let his anguish and discomfort show, but Naem did not miss anything. Not the raised bumps on flesh, nor the tight lines on his forehead and mouth.

Sighing, he strode to the bed and pulled the coverlet over John. "You are also cold."

"You left me hanging without clothes and I haven't eaten in over a day," John replied dryly, but he did not shirk away from the blanket.

Naem sat, waving at the guard to bring over the tray with food. "I understand this is unpleasant, John, but you are a strong man, which is why I have chosen to spare you your friends fate. I need an heir, and I do not trust you to be left in the town at your own device. But I also know you will not so easily give up what you were, therefore, you must understand the quandary before me. This --" he gestured at the chains hanging from the beam, the vial on the dresser, "it is to ease that journey. Trust me when I say it can be worse."

"What if I don't want the journey?"

John was watching Naem from his position on his side, only his face and hair visible under the coverlet. He looked young, vulnerable, and Naem felt a pang of regret as he answered, "Kings are never given a choice."

Without waiting for John to respond, Naem pulled a bowl of porridge off the tray, knowing a stomach without food for over a day in addition to the Lumival, would need something bland to begin with. "Until I say otherwise, you may only eat from my hand. This is an exercise in trust and obedience. If you want to eat, you need only ask, but it will be from me to you. If I find you have eaten in any other way, the food will be purged from your body."

The man had tensed, his face growing inscrutable, blank. Naem supposed it was better than rage in the face of his announcement. He told John to sit and scooped a spoonful, holding it out to him.

When John did not sit, or move to eat, Naem's eyes hardened. "I will give you one more chance, John, and if you refuse to sit or eat, that will be your decision, but I do not think you will like the consequences."

Sheppard stared stonily at Naem, the spoon remained hanging in the air between them, and then when the man reacted, it was only to slap the spoon away, sending porridge splattering on the bedding, Naem and the floor.

His father had counseled him on patience, care. You did not raise hunting birds without all of the above. Haem had worked with men, Naem had only observed, never having had a reason for direct experience, but now he fought hard to find the calm inside that he had seen his father portray in the face of such open defiance. Naem picked up the spoon and placed it in the bowl and ordered his guards curtly to take it away and get a servant to clean up the mess. He left John on the bed, and washed his face and clothes, going to his dresser and pulling his formal tunic and pants. He had needed to change anyway. But when he turned back to Sheppard, he felt the heavy weight of what he had undertaken.

"I will try again at dinner, until then you will not eat, and you may find the Lumival will sit increasingly poor on your stomach the longer you go without food. Also, I must fit the Bracelet of Remembrance on your thigh. It is a painful tool to encourage obedience and will be worn for a full day every time you openly defy me again, do you understand?" He kept his voice cold, devoid of any humanity, because John had to know he would do what he must.

The bracelet was made of leather, with small studs bearing a sharp tip. When standing, it was uncomfortable. When sitting, it would draw blood from the small punctures. He had seen his father use it on subjects before, including his mother when she had disobeyed his order to not coddle Naem as a child. He had worn it, as well, so when he ordered the guards to restrain Sheppard, not wanting to give the man more opportunity to accrue extra punishment, he strapped the leather on mid-way between knee and hip, tightening it enough that it pricked skin but wouldn't dig too deep or restrict blood flow.

Naem watched as Sheppard's eyes grew dark and deadly. If it weren't for the Lumival, the guards, his weakened state – Naem would fear for his life. As it were, he moved away with a quicker step then he intended, inwardly seething. "Ascaria waits. You will get dressed in the new clothes I have for you. Do not fail to learn today, or you will spend another night in chains."

Without giving John another look, Naem stormed from the room. He needed to see Karael about his birds.

OoO

John had met a lot of people in his life. Some he'd hated, some he'd respected, and some he'd feared. Naem fit into all of the above, although, the respected category came with a caveat – he respected the part of this man that knew exactly what to do to get Sheppard to do what he wanted.

It'd gone against every ounce of his being to take the dose of Lumival without even a protest, but his mind had flashed to Teyla's stiff body against the wooden pole, shirtless, and her back bleeding from the strikes she'd suffered because he'd fought it yesterday. With a lot of mental screaming, he'd opened and swallowed it, loathing Naem for it the entire time.

Then, he'd been released, his limbs unable to function, and truthfully, he'd lost a little bit of awareness to the roaring in his ears when the pain had flooded his nervous system and shut down his senses for a brief moment in time. It hadn't lasted long and when he sorted his senses out, it was to realize he was in Naem's bed, the warm silk cover draped over his aching body.

When the mad king had gone into the lengthy explanation about how he'd eat, Sheppard had felt a new surge of anger that all but dwarfed what he'd felt before. In his years, John had met more than a few fucked up individuals, but Naem made them look like amateurs.

The thought of having to accept being fed like an invalid from Naem's hands sent rage coursing through his blood, hot and heavy, and John couldn't shake it, not even the vision of Teyla's torn flesh. Sheppard wanted to wrap his hands around Naem's neck and snap it, one quick motion, but the Lumival made his arms and legs swim through air like he was coated in molasses and he knew his grip wouldn't be strong enough even if he got a hold before the guards intervened.

When Naem held the spoon in front of him, he refused.

The king was calm as he reasserted how it was going to be, and Sheppard fixed his eyes somewhere else, looking through Naem, because Sheppard knew he was in trouble. Really, serious, honest to God, deep shit kind of trouble, and as hungry as he was, what Naem asked him to do…no, ordered him to do…John couldn't. There were degrees of capitulation. Some were just pleasantries, contrivances, and in the end they didn't mean anything. Taking a drug that'd be forced down him anyway, taking off his clothes – in the end, he knew he didn't have control, so giving up an illusion wasn't a hard step to take, and in the end, it didn't cost him any of his soul. But this – this was different. This was a step further, intruding into his being, who he was. A man capable of feeding himself since he could walk and talk, and Naem was trying to take him back to helplessness in order to assert his dominance over Sheppard.

With careful precision that took a lot of effort, John slapped the spoon away. He watched as the thick, pasty food fell in clumps; on the rug, the bed, on Naem. It probably tasted like crap, anyway.

The man had control, John had to give him that. He didn't punch John, didn't yell, or react in any outward way, simply put the spoon in the bowl, called for the mess to be cleaned, and went off behind the privacy screen to get cleaned himself. Then he dressed in his formal clothing while Sheppard stared away, and told John about another source of pain and discomfort to make his day that much more hellish.

The bracelet pinched his leg but John kept his reaction to himself. He hated the feel of Naem's fingers against his skin, hated being forced into this, and the only thing that kept him from snarling something that was bound to get him more trouble, was thinking about his team. At least they were being spared this. The thought of Teyla, or Rodney, Beckett – not so much Ronon, because he was a soldier, like John – it made his blood boil. No, he could do this. Naem could play his little games, and Sheppard could handle it.

Released from the guards, his new clothes handed to him by a servant, John stood reluctantly. His stomach did flip painfully, and Sheppard knew Naem wasn't lying about the effects of the drug on an empty stomach.

He walked behind his escort to the library; exhausted, sick and hurting.

When he sat to begin his lessons, the bracelet drew blood, and John figured the reason for the red clothes. The shirt, pants, all of it was solid red. The only exception was embroidered vines on the cuffs and neck. The cloth felt like silk but it wasn't slippery, more like cotton against his skin, and it sort of shimmered in the candlelight that lit the bright library.

It was raining outside, he could hear it drumming against the glass dome, and the light allowed in was dim and gray, leaded. Perfect for his dark mood.

Ascaria pointed at a letter and said, "This is a common combination, the sound it makes is aaaaaa."

Sheppard shifted, trying to ease the pressure against his thigh, but Naem had strapped it right where the edge of the bench met his leg. Son of a bitch. He frowned at the word and growled, "Two letters for one short vowel sound?"

"Actually, it is three, and Prince Sheppard, this is the easiest combination which is why we will begin here; surely this is not too complicated for you to understand?" She arched a disparaging eyebrow at him.

He wanted to snap that it was when you hadn't eaten in over a day, hadn't slept, and had a god damn bunch of stickpins pressing into your leg, but John pursed his lips together, studied the three letters she kept underlining on what looked like their version of beginner reader and grunted, "Next."

"This," she underlined a single letter, "Can make four different sounds, depending on what combination it follows. Kkkkkkk, t, d or fffffffffff. The t and d are short, you can not hold the sound in your mouth, the kkkkkk and fffffff should be held for a moment before released."

Sheppard was pretty sure he was going to throw up.

OoO

Rodney pulled the cart up the low grade incline, sweating despite the rain. His clothes were drenched, sticking to his skin, and the leather straps from the harness had rubbed raw spots on his shoulders. The small satisfaction he got from glaring at the guard walking in front of him wasn't enough to keep his body for aching from the physical exhaustion.

He'd been told to take this load of fresh fruit to the manse, and he'd leapt at the chance. He could catch a glance at the 'gate en route, because the road split into a fork when it met with the river. The left path went to the Stargate, while the right went up to the manse. What he'd seen hadn't crushed his hopes totally, but he knew it would make any escape more complicated. Naem hadn't sealed the 'gate, he'd simply toppled it, letting the ground do it for him. If Elizabeth had tried to dial back and send a MALP it would've arrived the first time, the backwash of the wormhole taking out a small tunnel, but redialing would've obliterated the MALP. Considering the situation she would've had Lorne ready to go with a rescue team and activated the MALP for an 'all clear', at which point there wouldn't have been a MALP and she would've assumed the worst and called it off rather than risk more lives. It was what she was supposed to do. And McKay wished like crazy she'd sent Lorne anyway, but the proof was in the fact that he was still here, still drugged, and still sentenced to a life of service, repaying a town for crimes none of them had committed.

Carson was staying with Teyla, doing light field work. Ronon was taking on the more physical chores for the day, and Rodney had volunteered for the trip to the manse. As he neared the lower entrance, McKay began to search for any sign of Sheppard.

The guard pointed him towards the kitchen and waited at the door. Seeing his chance, and temporarily free of an escort, Rodney dropped off the food, before ducking into the main hall. He was wet, and filthy, but the halls were mostly empty, and he could duck behind doors if someone was coming. He needed to see John, to make sure he was okay.

McKay had been learning how to do the military thing, and he used every ounce of it now. He peeked down the main hall after leaving the kitchens. The corridor was wide, easily the size of two grown men laying head to toe across the cobbled stone work that made the floor. Large woven draperies hung from the ceiling to the floor, covering the stone walls and working to keep away the dampness and chill. On alternating walls, torches hung in sconces, burning brightly, but for all the light they gave, the darkness of the gloomy day invaded.

Easier for him to get around, Rodney figured. He stepped into the corridor and hugged the wall, stepping cautiously forward. He'd gone about halfway when he heard voices ahead, coming through a door on the left. A woman and a man. Saying a fervent prayer, Rodney snuck forward, pushing the wooden arched door open to look inside. Sheppard!

He was sitting at a bench, dressed in rich red clothing, similar in style to Naem's, and Rodney told himself that made sense, because of the game the king was playing. Please, making John his heir? The man was definitely insane. The only thing Sheppard was heir to was an ATA gene that he'd gotten from the benefit of backyard breeding. And there wasn't anything on this planet to make that stand for anything special.

A woman was pointing to a book and saying sounds slow, then looking to Sheppard and waiting for him to echo the sound. Teaching – she was teaching John! Rodney frowned, and moved a little, hoping it would catch Sheppard's attention in the periphery of his sight.

Sheppard's head turned, and when he caught sight of McKay, his eyes widened. He grimaced and shook his head, but Rodney jerked his head towards the hall. If Sheppard was this guy's heir, he had to have some freedom, and McKay didn't see any guards standing near this door, though there was one on the other side of the library with his back to Rodney.

He slumped against the wall, shivering in his damp clothes, when John strode out, grabbing Rodney's arm and pulling him along the corridor roughly.

"Hey!" McKay protested.

"Shut up!" John pushed open a door they came to on the right, and shoved Rodney in, before following and pulling it closed behind him. "Are you nuts?"

Sheppard paused at the door and listened for a minute before turning his back to it. His face softened as he stared at Rodney. "How's Teyla?"

Rodney sized him up, noticing the pallor and tiredness. "Recovering. How are you?"

"Being treated like a prince," he cracked.

McKay heard the hollowness, and it bothered him. "I see. Normally, red suits you, but --"

"Prince Sheppard!"

John stiffened, and moved over McKay, covering Rodney's mouth with his hand and whispering, "Shhhh."

The voice continued to call, then more feet started running by, and Sheppard tensed, swearing. "Damn it, McKay, you shouldn't have come here looking for me," he hissed. The hand dropped away from Rodney's mouth and he breathed in, pulling away. The sound of feet faded.

"We were worried." He straightened his wet t-shirt and shivered more. Rodney went through all the trouble and risk to see if Sheppard was fine, and all he got was shoved around for it. Jesus. "Sorry if some of us are enduring less than quality conditions and feared for your safety!"

"Well, I'm fine," John retorted. "But you won't be if they catch you here." Sheppard stared at the closet they'd ducked into, searching the shelves for something. There were household cleaning products – brooms, mops and some sheets and towels. A bucket on the ground, and some scrub brushes. Picking up a sheet, Sheppard shoved it against Rodney's chest. "But since you're here, what's up with the confession? What the hell happened that night?"

Holding the sheet, not sure what he was supposed to do, McKay glared back at John. "I don't know. I went to bed and woke up in the cell, feeling like someone had drugged me, and I'm pretty sure someone did – then Naem comes and threatens your life if we don't do as he says."

"So you did," accused John. "Do you have any idea what you started?"

Rodney gripped the cloth tight in his fists. This wasn't going how he'd planned. "Yes, I know," he snapped. "I started our survival until the Daedalus can arrive and rescue us!"

Sheppard looked at him funny, before turning back towards the door. "They're looking for me. I told Ascaria I was going to the bathroom. I'm going to leave first; after about ten minutes take the sheet and act like you're doing a job. Chances are they won't notice you once I turn up."

Stung by John's harsh response, Rodney didn't say a thing as the colonel slipped out the door, and back into Naem's world. All he had left was the sheet in his hand, and Rodney flung it to the ground with a curse. Son of a bitch.

OoO

Naem sat rigidly in his private office. The main audience chamber was only for greeting and dealing with his people; his office was where he reviewed the law, prepared speeches, listed births and deaths, reviewed his servants lists of harvest and usage. And it was where Ascaria came to report on Sheppard.

"He excused himself to use the bathroom, Majesty, but when he was gone too long, I went to find him."

"And?" He had hoped for better, but expected it nonetheless. John would not be an easy man to shape and mold. And he respected him more for it.

"He was not there, Sire. I retrieved Joros and Baela to search and we found him back in the library less than half an hour later. He would not admit to going anywhere other than the bathroom, even when I confronted him with his lie." Ascaria's hands pushed against her hips. Naem read the anger vibrating through her. She had fought his appointment as Sheppard's teacher, having lost almost half a field of food in the attack, but no one denied Naem, and he had only reminded her of who he was with a simple, "Your king will have you whether you wish it or not."

But John's cooperation was less than enthusiastic, and it was up to Naem to see that John was prepared for his lessons. Such was the role of every king to his prince. The bracelet had apparently not served as a strong enough reminder, and it bothered Naem. He had hoped this battle could be won with less pain on John's part.

"And you could not find where he went?"

Ascaria's face darkened over her failure. "I could not."

The quill in his hand almost snapped, and he set it on the desk carefully. The old wood was polished and smooth from centuries of use, and it smelled of winter, leather and wax. "Very well, I will see to his punishment, of course. How is his mind? Is he quick with his letters?" Naem was convinced of the answer, but asked it anyway.

"He is very capable, Sire. Prince Sheppard learns with amazing speed, and if he would apply himself, I believe he would be capable of reading at a mid-level degree by the end of the week."

Hearing it, even though he had suspected as much, caused a thrill of pride to run through Naem. His father had always said he had an eye for animals, people and situations. Naem had always been able to see through to what mattered, and what was needed; be it a training hand to his hunting birds, or to bring his wife to love him. He had needed the least amount of training as a prince, his father had boasted. And he had seen in John, not only the danger, but the promise.

Ascaria's enthusiasm for the positive news was a good place to end, and he dismissed her with a word that tomorrow the prince would not attend. She showed a mixture of disappointment and relief, before she curtsied and left. He would meet with his men, assign duties, and take the steps to increase John's progress.

OoO

Carson smoothed the final bandage on Teyla's back, and straightened, his own back complaining. A long day bent over small shin high bushes, pulling off balls of cotton, and pushing them into a bag worn slung over the shoulder and only dropping to waist high – it meant they had spent the majority of the day bent at the waist, and stooped.

The bedroom was the same one they'd shared before, two beds on opposite sides of the wall, the floor was smoothed wood that hadn't been cut that way, only the years of use had worn down the uneven edges and rough places until it was darkened from dust and age. The blankets the previous owners had made were rainbow colored, patchworked together, and words sewn into the corner. He could only guess it had meant something special to the people. A small wooden dresser, unfinished, stood under the window and between the beds. Curtains of white hung limply down. The walls were made from the stone and mud wattle, but the roof had thick branches and straw.

All things considered, it wasn't terrible, but it wasn't luxury, and if they weren't stranded, unfairly sentenced, and being forced to live a lie, Carson could think of many things worse. Being sucked dry by a wraith, of course; though this town had been culled right before they'd found them and made the trade agreement, it didn't mean they were safe for any amount of time, so it was always possible that death by wraith could still happen.

"Carson?"

He sighed, and pulled Teyla's shirt down over her bandages. "All done, Lass."

She pushed herself up, grimacing as the movement pulled on fresh scabs. "You are worried."

Beckett listened to Rodney grumbling to Ronon in the main room, the clanking of crockery and the flames hissing and spitting in the fire. He closed his eyes and imagined Atlantis, Elizabeth, his staff and his bed, before opening them again and admitting softly, "Aye, I'm very worried. We're cut off from our people, the ruler is a mad man and no one seems to realize it except us, and Colonel Sheppard --"

"Is in danger," Teyla finished firmly.

Despite McKay's unsettling news about Sheppard, Teyla had argued vehemently that Sheppard was not being treated well. Carson felt inclined to agree with her. He'd seen Naem watching Sheppard the night they'd arrived, and every time he remembered it, he got a cold spot in his belly.

"We are doing all we can."

She stood, only slightly shaky, from the drug and the hard labor of the day combining with her injury. "Ronon believes otherwise."

Beckett stood and followed her from the room, finding McKay and Ronon sitting at the table that could hold up to six people, but there were only four chairs. They both took a bowl from the wooden counter built on thin logs and scooped some of the soup before joining them. After Teyla had broken a piece off the loaf of bread and taken a bite, she explained, "The Lumival does not affect Ronon as much as us. They did not account for his size and weight." She dipped the bread into the broth and took another bite.

Carson looked over at Ronon for confirmation and the runner spooned a large mouthful and shrugged. It made sense, Beckett felt like chiding himself for not considering it earlier.

"Are you going to finish that?" McKay pointed at Ronon's bread.

"Yeah."

One word, but the look that accompanied made Rodney pull his hand back and say, "Fine, I was just asking."

"You were saying, Teyla?" Carson prodded her, throwing McKay a shushing look.

"If we time our escape in the early morning hours, before the next dose is brought to us, then Ronon will be nearly normal in his abilities, and we will be as close to it as possible. We can escape into the woods and with Ronon's experience as a runner, stay alive and rescue John."

A large log popped, sending sparks from the hearth and onto the floor, falling short of the one threadbare dark green rug. Beckett looked uneasily where they'd fallen and pointed out the one flaw. "What if Naem kills the colonel?"

"He's promoted Sheppard to his heir," Rodney pointed out, talking around a mouthful of soup. "I admit it's a risk, but other than looking tired, he looked fine."

"Then we will try before dawn."

Teyla's declaration was firm. Carson wanted to say what was the rush, but looking at the faces around him, he supposed they weren't used to waiting after coming up with a plan. He decided if they were going to disappear into the wilds before morning, he'd better go get another bowl of soup and enjoy the heat coming from the fire while he still could.

OoO

Ascaria hadn't gone merrily back to John's lessons like he'd hoped she would. He should've known not look for any help in those cold eyes. Still, as he sat on the bench and tried to read a passage, he hoped maybe she'd come back and pick up where they'd paused when he'd made his excuse to escape and talk to McKay.

When she'd found him back in his seat, she'd demanded to know where he'd been and then flinging, "You are lying" at him when she didn't buy his answer. She'd stormed out the thick library door, probably off to rat him out to the king.

The bracelet bit into his leg, hunger gnawed at his gut and fatigue made the words on the page blur into even more meaningless shapes than they all ready were.

When she arrived back after tattling on him, the guards told him to get up. He did, thankful at least for the release on his thigh. The blood had dried and he was sure the little edges were permanently stuck in his skin. It'd be hell to come off.

He was taken back to Naem's chamber and left there. Sheppard looked down at his leg and figured what the hell, he was already in trouble, might as well take the damn thing off and lie down, get some rest while he could.

The silk pants clung to his leg, and he had to move to the bed and sit to get them off without falling; the drug was hell on his balance. The bracelet was buckled, and it wasn't hard to get it off, but hurt like hell had been an understatement. It was like pulling off a long piece of Duck tape stuck into the thickest of his chest hair…faster or slower, either one was going to make his eyes water.

A guard watched impassively and didn't try to stop him.

By the time it was off, Sheppard felt like passing out. He had been allowed water, but nothing else. His stomach ached from hunger and he wanted to sleep. The only thing keeping him from doing just that, was that he was worried about what Naem was going to do when he came back. And then he got pissed at himself for being afraid. John didn't like to admit he was ever afraid; it didn't fit the image he portrayed to everyone, including himself.

He'd heard Beckett talking to Elizabeth when he'd been infected with the retrovirus. Sure, he'd been afraid then, his body was turning against him and he hadn't been able to do anything about it, but the fear had rapidly disappeared in the onslaught of impulses he couldn't control.

Here, there weren't any impulses other than the one screaming at him to escape, and looking at the guard, Sheppard knew that wasn't going to happen. Despite trepidation, John did slip into an uneasy doze.

He was woken by Naem. The king stood over him, arms folded, face hooded behind the hard mask he was coming to recognize. John tried to push himself up and found his muscles failed him. "If I would've known you were coming, I would've had the guards get me ready."

"You were not to remove the bracelet."

"Why not?"

What'd he have to lose? Naem had made it pretty clear what he was out to do, and Sheppard knew unless he could hold on for a month, maybe longer, he wasn't going to win, but before he lost, he was going to do his damnedest to make this entire process difficult for the king, and hopefully, manage to keep the part of him sane that needed to stay sane, so that when Caldwell got to play Knight in Shining Armor, John would be able to come back from this place he knew waited before him.

"Because I put it there," Naem said calmly.

Sheppard tried again to sit, and this time he made it. "Why are you doing this?" He didn't know why he asked, because did it really matter what Naem's motivation was? The end result was the same.

The king stared at him, the eyes seemed to strip his soul bare, and Sheppard shifted uncomfortably. He remembered with painful detail their first meeting. Remembered thinking that he'd encountered something incredibly dangerous, and just when he'd been sure they were in a lot of trouble, Naem had turned left when John had expected right. He'd allowed himself to be lulled enough to let Elizabeth make the call on returning when he should've recommended, strongly, they stay the hell away from this planet.

And now he waited for pain; a punch, slap, something, but the depths of those eyes just cut into him, searching – and Sheppard tried to hide anything that needed to be hid further down, and the entire time, he was sure he was failing.

Naem sat beside John, nodding at the guards, who took their cue and relaxed into positions on each side of the door. "When you were brought before me, just over two months ago, I judged you for a greater risk to my people than possibly the wraith."

"You were wrong." Sheppard wanted to hit the man for even suggesting it. That's what this was about? Some imagined danger against his people? "We only wanted to help your people in exchange for some food." God, maybe there was still a way to talk Naem off the edge of insanity.

"Let me finish," Naem scolded. He looked over at the guard, "Baela, have dinner brought up please."

So, they were on a second floor, or third – hell, Sheppard wasn't exactly sure how many there were but from what he'd seen outside, he'd guess at least four. And the thought of dinner made his stomach growl loudly. Naem was amused but Sheppard wasn't. He hadn't forgotten this morning.

"I am the last of my line, with no successor, and a king of Arstaem is not born of only woman, but born of discipline, obedience, and guidance. My family has ruled since the beginning of our history and ever king has trained the prince, just as I will train you. These same lessons that you will be broken upon, I have suffered before. When I saw how my people responded to you, my fears were justified, but what could I do? Execute you and your people? I would be reviled, and rightly so, for it is a waste."

Naem stood, crossed the luxurious rug and poured a drink, then retrieved another glass and poured one for John, before bringing it over. Sheppard didn't want it, but his wants weren't coming into play a whole lot lately. Sheppard went to take it, wanting to hear more of Naem's reasoning for all of this, when the king shook his head. "No, John, open."

"I'm not a prince, and I'm not a kid, Naem."

John's words were like flint.

"You _are_ my prince, you are strong, powerful, and you carry within everything my people need to survive, and when I am finished, you will be molded into a man capable of saving my world," Naem asserted. "You are what my son should have been if he had lived, and though I know you are dangerous, I also know of the two choices laid before me, I chose the one that made the most sense. If you would rather die now, I can arrange it, but it would distress me greatly." Naem's hand tightened on the glass and his lips thinned.

John chuckled bitterly. "So that's it? Go along with the _training_, or be executed?"

"If you learn quickly, the training will not be terrible."

Naem almost looked apologetic.

The surrealism of it came back to punch him in the gut just as dinner was delivered. Sheppard didn't want to die, God knows, that option was out, definitely. Death wasn't at the top of his list of things to do, but what Naem wanted – what he would force John to do…he really didn't know if he could. To give up that much of who he was and let Naem strip him down to nothing and build him back up. Would the man who was John Sheppard still be alive after this?

He tried a final time as the tray was carried over.

"I'm not your prince."

Naem stared at him, was that sadness?

"Yes, John. You are."

OoO

The beam was down, John shackled again, naked but for his undergarments. The next two weeks were going to be extremely unpleasant. Naem had cleared his responsibilities, and short of emergencies, had told Gaemal he was not to be disturbed. Even after he had explained, John had refused to take the drink and food from his hand. Truly, he had expected no less, but it did make him feel a pang that the suffering would grow worse before it grew better.

He, himself, had on occasion spent a week on the beam. Even as a child, and easier to train at a younger age, he had never wavered when he had felt his actions were justified. His only brother, before he had succumbed to the plague, had only lasted two days on the beam. Not Naem, though, he had fought to outlast his father.

Staring at John's defiance, Naem knew that, like it had been with him, the end result was always the same. As a child, he had thought the week had meant something. Meant that he could not be broken. Until he had been sentenced to the beam again, and again, and found that each time thereafter, he was only able to hold on for shorter periods of time until finally, even the prospect of one more night had been enough for him to tell his father he had learned the lesson well enough, and that had been the last time the beam had ever been required.

John had the same strength, the same resolve, and since this was not a child before him, Naem was going to push the man farther. He would be on the beam for two weeks. If he gave before the time was up, Naem would be able to see it in his eyes. Until then, John would be taken down only to use the bathroom. If he wanted food, he would take it from Naem or not at all. Water would be forced down, as would the Lumival. He had hoped to avoid this, but after today's game with Ascaria, Naem had realized he was only doing John a disservice by avoiding the inevitable.

He was going to miss his birds.

OoO

Ronon waved at McKay, and that was the signal he needed to grab the bundle in his arms and creep forward. They were scavenging all they could because when they were free of the town, their survival would depend upon their ability to make a fire, hunt, and build a shelter to withstand the winter weather that beckoned in the freezing nights. His feet crunched in the hoary frost on the grass, and he cringed, pausing. When he glanced back, Ronon glared and McKay shrugged. Wasn't his fault it'd gotten below zero last night.

He moved forward again, taking the time to make sure his feet stayed on the dirt path. The town was dark except for an occasional window with a candle burning, and all they had to do was avoid those. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the stars were brought into sharp focus by the crisp night. Mist puffed in front of his face with each exhalation, and Rodney tried to pull the jacket tighter around his body. They'd been given one change of clothes in addition to the ones they'd had with them, so all together, they had three, but the only coat was the uniform jacket, and that wasn't meant for these temperatures.

The frozen dew was slippery under his feet and McKay found himself thinking longingly of the warm bed he'd left when Teyla had shaken him awake moments before. They hadn't done anything to alert someone watching. No last fire and hot meal. It was only their third day, and Rodney had a lot of reasons coming to mind why he should've told them this was a bad idea.

Ronon moved silently past him to take the lead.

They crept out of the town like shadows, and Rodney even got a chance to glare at Carson for making the same mistake he'd made earlier, and crunching the grass loudly under his foot. Beckett had cringed and frozen, along with everyone else. They'd reached the outskirts and were almost at a point where they could make a run for it, not worrying anymore about noise.

The nearest home remained dark, and Teyla had waved them into a run. The Lumival was still in their bodies, but Ronon definitely was doing better. He ran almost normal, while the rest of them tipped, wavered and managed to at least maintain hard-earned forward progress. The constant jarring sent his head spinning.

They headed away from the 'gate, Ronon's idea, and into the depths of a thick forest that they didn't know a lot about. In their brief time on this world, not a lot of conversations had happened. But forest meant cover and plenty of places to hide. They'd need to take care of the basics first, then start planning on a way to get the 'gate up off the ground. Rodney wasn't looking forward to letting the rest of them know the odds of them being able to do it on their own, with anything they might make or find in a forest, well, they'd be better off spending their time building a two story room with a view, because it'd be never.

It was a silent escape that started with creeping, turned to running and staggering, then a long march. The day dawned, and the forest smoked in the morning thaw, evaporation rising off the cold ground into the warming air. It was hazy, and the tall broadleafs rose up, naked sentinels out of the mists into a blue sky filled with blue birds.

They'd made it. He stopped walking, ignored Carson running into him, and raised his face into the sunlight. "We made it!"

"Out of the town," Ronon said. He lifted a thick branch from the forest floor, unearthing it from the inches of leaves, and hefted it experimentally. They didn't have any weapons, only some knives. "Now the hard part begins."

Teyla simply nodded, but Rodney turned to share a startled look with Carson as he mouthed, "Hard part?"

OoO

John was losing it. Honest to God, he was falling apart. He hung from the ceiling, sure his shoulders were dislocated by now, and the pain had become more than his brain could keep up with. The hunger had taken over, and the Lumival had made him sick to the point he retched every time he tried to move his body. His knees ached with a vicious dullness that made him want to beg Naem to end this.

He'd been here for days…weeks, no…days. He hadn't eaten. His pride had kept him from it initially, then the Lumival had made him so sick he couldn't even care anymore. John knew the guards took him down twice a day to use the bathroom, he remembered water being dripped into his mouth, but everything else began to blur into one long thought of _pain pain pain pain pain_…so much PAIN.

His stomach, arms, joints, neck, knees, legs… "Stop," Sheppard mumbled through a thick tongue.

Naem was there, lifting John's face and peering into his eyes, but all Sheppard saw was a blur of the king's silvering hair and dark, very dark eyes. "Will you take food from my hand, John?"

He wanted to tell Naem he'd do anything, but the words wouldn't come, whether from stubbornness of just the fact that he couldn't get his brain to work anymore, John wasn't sure. How long had he hung here? Days…weeks…no, days.

Where was Rodney? Why hadn't they rescued him?

Water was dribbled in his mouth, and his shackles released, and Sheppard did cry out then. The pain overwhelmed him, and all he could do was curl in a ball and close his eyes against it, ride it, endure it, because it was all he had now, _pain pain pain pain pain_…PAIN.

"You have been here a week, John, with another week left – will you take food from me?"

Naem was pulling his legs away from his chest, rolling him to his back, and calling for the Lumival – God, not that, not the burning pain in his mouth, throat and gut. Sheppard tried to roll away but Naem held him effortlessly. "Open, John."

He did and he knew there was a reason why he allowed himself to do that, but wouldn't eat, yet the memory was out of his reach, as he gagged it down, and groaned. Then the guards jerked him to his feet and marched-dragged him to the bathroom. Somehow he did what he had to do, and when they turned him to head back, Sheppard started fighting. He couldn't go back up there, couldn't hang for another day.

His movements were uncoordinated, slow, exaggerated and off the mark. The guards gripped him tighter and pulled him along without even taking a single hit from Sheppard. He was shackled again, and the pain began the moment the support on his arms was released. Why was he here? A week – why? Another week to go? Would he still be alive after another week?

Sheppard looked wildly around the room. The bed where Naem was resting, the dresser and mirror, the cabinet with the drinks…the rug below. There had to be a way to get out of this, a way to relieve the pain eating him alive.

Naem's eyes met his and the king shook his head. "I am sorry this was necessary."

"Sorry?" Sheppard rasped. "Let me go, then."

"No." He turned to the door when a knock sounded. The guard opened it, accepted a stack of papers, and brought them to Naem. "You have been here over a week without food, one week on the beam, and I see one more layer about to fall before me. No, John, this is necessary." And the king began reading and discussing the papers with the guard, ignoring him.

John tried to straighten and only made it part of the way, but he resolved that at the end of the week, he wouldn't eat from Naem's hand. He'd make it the biggest game of chicken this king had ever seen. At least, that's what he thought, until the pain came and stole his thoughts again.

OoO

The search parties had turned up nothing, again. Naem stared at the reports from his guards, disbelief at the thought that his men, trained and skilled as they were, could be outwitted by a group of escaped prisoners. The Lumival they had been given had worn off by now, but they were weaponless, only able to escape with a few meager supplies, and the trees had shaken free of their summer cloaks. The first snow would be soon, and he did not want John's people dying.

This week had been long and difficult. He had never doubted the need for it, but seeing John out of his mind in pain had brought back memories of his own days spent lost in the delirium of agony.

It would not kill, and the two times a day of being released were enough to prevent permanent harm, but yes, the beam was used to break the will of many before John, and if Sheppard married, it would break more in the future. It broke boys and men because of the unendurable pain. The longest Naem had lasted was one week; it was why he had assigned two weeks to John when he had realized that Sheppard would not respond otherwise; twice as much time to account for the stubbornness that came with being older.

Staring pensively at the man, lost again in his own torment, Naem ordered the search parties doubled. "The snows will begin soon and that will bring the Luperes out of the mountains. I want them safe, Joros! It is on your life that I will see it so."

"Yes, Sire."

The man bowed stiffly, and left.

The last report was from the man Ascaria had found to double as the prince. While John was enduring his training, the people needed to be assured that all was fine, especially after the other four had escaped. The man had been her suggestion, she knew of someone in the town that had hair dark enough, and a body lean and long, as to pass for John at a distance.

Naem had the man brought to the manse, and allowed him to stay, dressed him in silks and let him walk the grounds. A few times they had traveled into town together but Naem had kept the fake John in the background, his face hooded and explained it as the prince fighting off an autumn cold.

The double was upstairs sleeping now, as were most of the servants, yet Naem lingered awake, studying John even while sleep tugged at him persistently. John's face had become stubbled and bearded, and Naem had ordered one of his servants with a gentle hand to shave him regularly afterwards. He did not like his prince so rough looking.

Jaem had also had thick dark hair, even when he had come crying from his mother's womb. It had stuck up straight, just like John's, and he had laughed into it, cried into it. Now, the impulse to touch John's hair overwhelmed him, and Naem felt his feet moving of their own volition to the man, John's head bent, misery etched across his face; so like Jaem when he was born. Misery, he had been in so much pain…

Naem's hand caressed John's head, running softly through his sweat soaked hair, staring kindly at John's eyes clenched tight against the waves of pain. "So like my Jaem would have been. Strong and tall, dangerous, a panther ready to lead, with silent grace and strength."

But this was not Jaem. He pulled away, and narrowed his eyes. No, not Jaem – but fate had sent him someone that could be. Naem turned away from John and moved back to his bed, sitting. "When I first saw you, I knew you were dangerous," he admitted, knowing that John was too lost in his own pain to understand, if he was even listening. Feeling melancholic, Naem blew out the candle and rolled onto his back. As his thoughts lingered on Jaem, and his wife, Naem realized, he'd simply misunderstood the danger.


	3. Chapter 3

Carson pressed a hand against Teyla's forehead, cringing from the heat. The small lean-to was cold, but she was burning up on her pallet of branches and rotting mulch. Swearing, he pulled the blanket up further around her, and tried to ignore his own chilled bones. They had to use a blanket to cover underneath her, then two to wrap around the lass to keep her warm. Even with the fever, her body needed to stay warm.

Their escape had been a bad idea. He'd told them they should wait for the Daedalus –between Teyla's healing back and the worsening weather – this idea was crazy. Almost two weeks, and they'd barely eaten, then Teyla had broken one of the deeper cuts from the flogging when she'd fallen while hunting with Ronon.

It'd become infected fast enough, with no supply of antiseptic cream or clean bandages, and the only water was a muddy stream that moved sluggishly with silt and bugs. Not even any fish.

Ronon was looking every day for the river, but it looked like that body of water hadn't come from this side of the world. Near as he could tell, if the manse was north, they'd followed east, deep into the woods, and the river turned west at the fork in the road. If it ever did move east, it was farther than Ronon had gone.

Teyla tried to turn onto her back, uncomfortable on her belly. Carson stayed her with a firm hand on her shoulder. "No, Lass, your back is a mess."

She lifted her face off the blanket, stared at him with glassy, confused eyes. "Where are we?"

"In the woods, Love, now sleep."

If she understood, he wasn't sure. The delirium was worse today, and she often made the mistake that she was back on Athos and demanded to see Halling or Charrin, or any of the others of her people; names Carson didn't know, and some he imagined weren't even alive anymore.

Beckett stared at her sweat-lined face, the dampness curling her hair against scalp. He'd decided last night that if there was any hope for her, he had to do something.

Climbing to his feet, Carson staggered out from under the branch and dead grass roof that wouldn't keep anything dry, finding Ronon gutting another of those small animals he had learned how to snare. Rodney hovered by the fire, his hands stretched over the flames. He looked up at Carson. "Teyla?"

Shooting a harsh look at Ronon, Carson shook his head. "She needs more than we can give; the wound is septic."

The knife in Ronon's hand paused, and he looked up, dark, brooding eyes.

"This isn't working," Carson continued. "Teyla's dying, and I don't know if you've noticed, but we won't be much behind her."

Ronon went back to skinning the animal. "They might kill us if we go back." He didn't look overly worried at the prospect.

Carson sighed, and sat next to McKay on a dead tree Ronon had hauled into their camp to keep their arses off the cold, damp ground. "And they might not, but if we stay here, at least one of us will die for sure."

"I don't think they'll kill us." Rodney poked a stick into the flames, sending sparks flying upward. He looked over his shoulder at the lean-to, then at Ronon. "You've said Sheppard is fine. Despite the appalling methods of subduing criminals and the farce of a justice system, we haven't been placed in mortal danger aside from what we've managed to do to ourselves."

"Cook it." Ronon threw the raw chunk of meat at Rodney's lap.

McKay grimaced. "Intergalactic explorer, highly trained scientist, and I've been reduced to poking a stick up a dead animal's ass and playing cave man." He wiped off the soot from the improvised spit and skewered it up the middle, the legs hanging accusingly below, dripping blood. He looked at Beckett and smiled like he'd solved something impressive. "But yet, with finesse."

Carson liked the furry creatures, but the rabbit like animals were all that Ronon could catch. They didn't have anything powerful enough to bring down some of the larger game. He shuddered at the thought of what might've killed the large carcass they'd found the other day, not far from their camp. "How do we know Sheppard's fine?"

"I saw him walking around the grounds yesterday, Doc," Ronon explained.

Their plan had been to scout the grounds around the manse, find some way of rescuing Sheppard, but every time Ronon came back, it was with empty hands and a report of Sheppard walking arm in arm with a woman. And always with more guards than Ronon could take on by himself.

"Why are we wasting time worrying about Sheppard?" snapped McKay, jerking the spit around. "Teyla's dying, we're starving --" he looked at the small animal, angry, "—do you think this is going to be enough for all of us? No, it's not, and we're going to go to bed hungry and cold, and shiver through another horrible night, while he's sleeping in a warm house, with plenty of blankets and food!"

Carson blew out an angry breath, some times Rodney could be frustratingly difficult. "He didn't ask for this, Rodney."

McKay's hand jerked away from the fire, and he shook it frantically. "Ow! Son of a bitch," he swore. "Of course he didn't ask for this!" Rodney stuck his burnt finger into his mouth, and Carson rolled his eyes, standing up to take a look at the injury.

When he went to take Rodney's hand, the man pulled it closer to his body and glared. "Rodney, let me see." He was long used to working with recalcitrant patients.

Grudgingly, he let Carson take his fingers and turn them over. A blister from where he'd let his hand get to near the fire was already forming.

"It's not as if I blame Sheppard, I just --" Rodney kept babbling as Carson began to wrap the cleanest bit of cloth they had around the fingers. "We're going to die, seriously, and he's enjoying walks in the sun, silk clothes and food." McKay groaned as Carson tightened the bandage. "Why hasn't he tried to look for us?"

"The king might have kept our escape from him," Carson explained brusquely, releasing Rodney's hand. "There you are, I'm afraid I've got nothing to give you for the pain." The small burn would probably be okay, but even a small burn could hurt like the devil.

The setting sun cast a purplish pall over the sky, and Carson shivered. Rodney, despite his bluster, had an ability to get to the crux of a situation. They _were_ going to die if they tried to stay out here.

"Tomorrow we stop this folly. Ronon, you will return to the town and tell them we want to turn ourselves in. Rodney and I will stay with Teyla till you can return with a litter, and make sure they bring medicines with them. The sooner she's treated the more likely she'll live through this."

"Doc --"

"Carson's right." Rodney flexed his hand, as if testing to see how much pain he'd have from using it, and returned to rotating the spit, the roasting meat smelling so pungent and good that Carson's mouth was already watering, even though he knew it wouldn't be enough once they divided it between them.

"Aye, as much as it galls us, to save Teyla, and even ourselves, we must accept there's no other choice."

And he kept telling himself that throughout the long, cold night.

OoO

"Drink."

The firm voice rolled over John, and he opened his mouth. He was thirsty.

"Now, eat, John."

He was hungry – very, very hungry. Without thinking, John opened his mouth and accepted the spoon of broth.

He dreamed of pain, and more eating and drinking. Sometimes, John wondered what had happened, but mostly he slept. After a time, he woke again, aware for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. He was in Naem's bed, exhausted and achy. The same weighted feel was in his arms and legs, but his stomach didn't hurt, and that was all he had the energy to care about, as he slipped further into a sound sleep.

When he woke again, John saw the guards at the door, and sensed Naem was near. He pushed up only to find his arms didn't work. They tried, but the coordination wasn't there. Giving up, Sheppard settled for looking around. That was when he heard the water splashing and knew where Naem was.

The king strode out from behind the privacy screen, and his eyes fixed on John. He smiled. It was the first time Sheppard had ever seen Naem smile like this. Open, honest, not hiding anything, and it made him wonder what the hell had happened? His memories of the time spent hanging suspended from that damn beam were muddled. He knew he'd been up there for a long time, too long, just as he knew time had passed that he couldn't remember.

"You're awake," Naem said warmly.

Sheppard almost wished he wasn't. He stayed quiet, watching.

A tray of food and a glass of water was on the dresser behind him, and he didn't see it till Naem retrieved the tray and brought it to the bed. Inside, John felt a hard punch of despair. God, no, he didn't want to go there, not now, not again…vaguely, he remembered now being fed – before he'd been released or after? How long ago had he broken?

"John, you have nothing to be ashamed over."

Bitterness filled his mouth. Yes, he did, his body had betrayed him, continued to. Sheppard had allowed this man, this _king_, to feed him like a child and he couldn't even remember it.

"Joros, come help your prince."

The guard walked from his station by the door, propped his sword on the massive headboard, and lifted Sheppard's body like he was nothing more than a child, while Naem pushed pillows up behind his back. The man stepped away, sympathy in his eyes, and it made John feel worse, as Joros picked up his sword and returned to his duty.

Naem tucked a napkin over Sheppard's chest and settled beside him. "The worst is over." He spooned some of the white, thick porridge and held it in front of John's mouth.

Hunger still warred with pride; his body's endurance warred with his spirit. Sheppard wanted to refuse. He didn't want to be fed like this, to accept the defeat it represented, but his body ached with a ferocity that screamed he'd go insane if he were shackled to the beam again.

The spoon remained in the air between them, and Naem, always the master at the game, dropped the smile and now looked into John with the knowledge that Sheppard had already broken and eaten from his hand, and even though he hadn't been fully cognizant, he'd still done it, and there was nothing to be gained from regressing.

But Sheppard knew there was something. His pride, his core – who he was. John wasn't a man to give into other men. He'd taken orders in his military career…until he'd disagreed. Then he'd gone and done what he had thought necessary. He'd done the same thing with Elizabeth, even going so far as to require Bates to directly disobey her when she was standing beside the officer and Sheppard was rooms away.

What Naem wanted was complete capitulation, acceptance of Naem as the one in control, and John hadn't given anyone that since he'd been a kid and hadn't had a choice.

And he couldn't now.

Even though he wanted to, more than anything, because he hurt so God damn bad and he was hungrier than he'd ever remembered being in his life, he just couldn't…couldn't make his mouth open and do what Naem wanted, what he needed to do to stay down off that fucking beam. John swallowed, hard, breathed, closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

When the cold metal met his lips and Naem grabbed his jaw firmly, Sheppard didn't resist. Naem knew, and he was going to disregard John's token resistance and force the food into his mouth, giving Sheppard the escape from the beam that he needed, all he had to do was go along with it. Passive defiance was still defiance, right?

The coil of feelings conflicted within him as the food was scraped off the spoon by his teeth. He just had to chew, that was it, and he wouldn't be put in shackles. Naem hadn't let him refuse and John didn't have the energy to fight. The porridge was warm, and bland. He kept his eyes closed and chewed the few times he had to, before swallowing it.

He flinched with Naem rubbed a hand briskly on his arm and murmured encouragingly, "That's it, John. That's it."

OoO

Naem's hand clenched on the handle of the spoon, waiting, not even certain he was breathing. This was the critical moment, where he'd see if the two weeks on the beam had been worth the pain and suffering John had endured, and Naem, through him.

He watched as John focused on the spoon, stared at it with resignation, knowing what accepting it meant.

Naem had seen it in John's eyes when he'd realized he couldn't.

A part of Naem inside almost cried for the proud man lying in his bed. So like him, and like Jaem, if he had lived. John had no idea of how much this hurt Naem to do, but he had to, it was the only way to raise a prince to grow and accept the crown for what it was. A duty to the people, obedience to the people, everything for his people.

When Naem had first brought John to the manse, he had believed intimidation and cold assurances of threats would work, but it had not taken Naem long to realize that was the farthest from the truth. John would need a steady hand, swift punishment, and then warmth and reassurance. The fact that Naem had never trained another was reason enough for his rocky start with John, but he felt they were on the right path now.

Knowing that he could not put Jaem…_John_, through that again, not so soon, Naem took a chance, and pushed the spoon between his lips, taking John's jaw firmly in his hand and pulled his mouth open.

Sheppard's resistance was gone; the effects of the Lumival and the two weeks on the beam having wore his body down, if not his mind enough, that the spoon pushed in without spilling any. Naem pulled it up at an angle, scraping the contents into his mouth, using his teeth as a grate.

By then, John had closed his eyes against Naem. The man chewed, slow, and swallowed. He didn't open his mouth for more so Naem took his chin again, and pulled. Whether John had the ability to resist physically or not, he did not, and for now, this level of cooperation was enough.

It took an hour to feed the bowl's contents to John, and when he was done, Naem poured water and told John to swallow. The man did. Naem wiped his face tenderly, "There. Now you may rest."

What had begun as a means to an end, was now giving Naem something he had needed for so long; long enough that he had stopped recognizing the need. A prince, a _son_, to raise, train and care for, to fill the emptiness he had suffered all these years. Naem was desperate enough, and John, so like Jaem would have grown to be, that he was easily being swept away, lost to the powerful emotions that Jaem – _John_, evoked.

He stood, taking the bowl, cup and napkin with him, and walked to his dresser, setting them to the side, and clutching the edges of the wood, hiding his face from his guards. Jaem -- John, the two were mixing in his mind and Naem almost believed the Ancestors had sent him John as his son reborn. They were so alike – would have been so alike, if Jaem had not died. In those ten days with his infant son, Naem had seen an unbelievable promise of a life, and when it was cruelly taken from him, he had grieved, longer than he should have.

Walking the steps with John that he would have with Jaem made his mind confused.

Straightening, Naem pulled a fresh tunic from his drawer. He spared a last look at John and knew he would sleep for a while again. Naem had been two weeks without hunting, and he felt the need for the woods now, with nothing but Zarye and Aarye on his arms.

"Do not let him be disturbed," Naem ordered, leaving his room.

Joros and Baela did not bother acknowledging his command; it was never necessary.

OoO

Naem had always loved autumn as a child. The crisp air that was scented with the promise of snow, trees divested of their green for all the other colors in the universe to have their day, then shaking free of them in a slow, steady fall that filled the air with leaves for a month long period, coating the forest floor in a thick, protective cover that crunched and crackled under his feet.

Before his brother had died, they had spent many days running through the woods, chasing each other and climbing as far as they could into the tall trunks, bark rubbing against their skin and scraping them until they came home, torn clothes and dirty faces, only to be lectured by their mother.

Zarye beat his wings, causing Naem to pull his head out of reach from the powerful, broad feathers and bone. "Impatient, are you not?"

The bird screeched his need, and Naem thrust his arm up, letting Zarye take off in flight, his talons biting into the protective leather cover Naem wore over his hand and lower arm. Behind him, Aarye ruffled her feathers and pranced, waiting her turn.

Naem smiled, and bent down, offering his arm. His guards stood always watchful off to the side. Gaemal had offered to come with him, but Naem had needed the time alone; just him and his birds, free to walk the forest, hunting and living, away from the pressure of John, his people, the fact they still had yet to find the other four of John's companions. "There you are," he soothed, lifting Aarye up the same as he had with her twin. "Off you go!"

Together, the birds circled overhead, climbing, climbing until they frolicked in the treetops. Their loud cries drifted down to him and how Naem wished he could join them. He knew they would play, stretch their wings, before settling on finding prey. It was their way; the way of the wild. He knew the twins were not bowed to him; they stayed out of love, served because they chose too. Some animals could never be broken, not without killing what made them desirable in the first place.

A sudden swoop of Zarye had Naem tense. He scanned the area, looking for what would cause the male to so easily turn away from his play with Aarye when they had only just been loosed upon the winds. One of his guards spun to look behind, and when the man Naem recognized walked calmly into their circle, the drifting leaves swirling around him, the king faced him stonily. "I should kill you now."

Somewhere deep inside, Naem knew John's people were the real danger to him…to Jaem.

"I would kill you first."

Naem understood that the man would, but his guards would then kill Dex. Ronon was feral, uncontrolled, and like his hunting birds, he stayed with Sheppard for his own reasons; respect, or loyalty, maybe both, Naem was not certain. "I have not harmed him."

The cold eyes raked over Naem, the guards, up to the birds. "I've seen Sheppard walking, lucky for you."

He had seen the double – then John's people had been very near all this time.

"Why did you escape and risk his life?" Naem was truly curious. He'd thought the threat would be all he needed to keep John's people in line.

"We didn't do anything wrong."

His guards held their swords, ready to do as he ordered, but Naem didn't want Ronon's death – not yet. He had never wanted anyone to die. Everything he had done was to help his people, even ordering the destruction of homes and fields he had thought necessary to set events in place to attain the desired end. But he did regret not sending John's companions through the 'gate before toppling it. His people had needed the guilty to pay for the crime, and that is why he had kept them. Naem had hoped isolating John would be enough, and using threats of harm against each other would keep them under his control.

He had misjudged the approach needed to train John, and how to deal with his companions, but as he had done with his prince, Naem would adapt and learn. For better or worse, John's people were here, and maybe handling them with a gentler, more benevolent approach, would keep them from acting rashly.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Naem said, "Winter is almost here." He glanced up at the trees, most were naked, but enough leaves remained to keep the steady fall. A week, maybe two left. "The cold becomes deadly; the Luperes leave their mountain home when the temperatures fall far enough for them to range without becoming overheated. You and your companions will die if you do not return to the town."

"What will happen if we go back?"

Naem was surprised by the uncertainty that stole across the man's hard face. He realized it was not worry for himself, but for the others. Naem could understand that. "I will not have you punished." For John, he would hold his hand against the public flogging an escape demanded. For the gentler approach. "But your Lumival will be increased." It was a fair demand for their safety and the pardon from punishment.

His head nodded slightly, the tight braids moving slightly on his shoulders, or was that from the shivers – the man only wore the leather tunic he had arrived on Naem's planet with weeks ago, when the weather had been warmer.

"Fair enough. Teyla's sick, we need help, medicine to keep her alive."

"Take him to the manse, get a litter and women from the Home of Healing to see to her needs. Have their bungalow cleaned, a fire built, and Lumival administered. Tell Leal to double Ronon's dose."

Naem gave the orders and watched as Ronon left with the two guards he had told with a gesture to accompany the man. As they left, Naem lifted his face to the sky, again, seeking for signs of his birds. They were up high, higher than they had gone in a while, and he smiled. It was a good day to fly, indeed.

OoO

Even with the Lumival in his veins, John's body was stronger. The healer that had visited had given him something for the pain in his arms and legs and he was pretty sure he'd slept for at least a couple of days. In between the moments of wakefulness, Naem had been there, with his food and drink, and always an encouraging word.

Sheppard wanted to hate Naem, and a part of him still did, but the part of him that had been broken on that beam, responded each time he arrived, because when Naem arrived, so did the food that his body needed. He'd been deprived for two weeks, and even with everything he'd seen and been through in Afghanistan, it hadn't been anything like what he'd just survived.

Sure, there'd been people and places on Earth that'd seen and experienced things that might even make Naem cry for his mother, but John hadn't been a POW in Vietnam, and he hadn't been caught behind enemy lines anywhere in the Middle East. And he'd never gone over two weeks without solid food. His hunger alone had almost driven him out of his mind, but then there had been the pain – hanging from that beam had been hard for one night, but two weeks – there wasn't description for the agony he'd been in.

He still hadn't willingly opened his mouth for the food. Sheppard had kept his lips shut, and Naem had forced the spoon in, every time. Two days of doing the same routine, and John sensed the end of Naem's patience with his passive defiance was coming soon.

It was almost harder now. Before, he'd been out of his mind enough to still refuse, even if it wasn't much of a refusal, even if he'd accepted the food in the end by virtue of chewing and swallowing, and not resisting, but now that he'd had time to recover, the mere thought of being hung up there again made him almost shake. He couldn't do it. Not right now, not for a while, and that left him with the awful realization that if Naem said, "Open," John would do it.

The shame that flooded his insides at the admission made him want to curl up and escape, even if he'd only admitted it to himself. He'd never believed he was weak, or helpless, but right now he was living both.

The door opened and Naem walked in. Sheppard closed his eyes, groaning inwardly, and rolled away. He both wanted and hated the meal he knew was coming.

"Ascaria wishes to begin again as soon as you are able," he started, bringing the tray to the bed.

"What about what John wants?" Sheppard felt a little funny talking about himself in the third person, but his thoughts were making him feel scared, and being scared made him grumpy.

Naem laughed lightly. "John wants to do as he's told."

"No, John doesn't."

Even without looking, Sheppard felt the air in the room chill. Naem pulled John over and said, "Look at me, John."

He opened his eyes, and sighed. This was humiliating, all of it. He was almost forty, and was reduced to this – everything. "What do you expect from me, Naem? I…"

The king still bore the strength Sheppard had recognized, but there was a familiarity with him now, and John was sure it had everything to do with the last two weeks. Every time he'd woken, Naem was there. When he'd hung in agony, Naem had been there, softly speaking and helping him stay sane, even though it was through Naem's orders that he was put up there to begin with. He had vague memories of being bathed after it, and he knew Naem had been there, too. Always, always there, and this king now knew him with more intimacy than Elizabeth or anyone else…but for all that he knew, Sheppard hadn't let him in. They both knew that Sheppard viewed him as an adversary.

"I want you to be the ruler of my people."

Naem didn't give him time to protest, instead lifting a napkin and shaking it open. "Sit."

The tray held more than broth or porridge, today it held roast meat, and Sheppard almost drooled from the smell. Solid, real food.

He knew, God, he knew.

This was it, John felt it in his bones, and he just…couldn't fight it. With trembling arms, he pushed himself up, and closed his eyes for a brief moment, steadying himself. He only had to hold on. The Daedalus would come in two more weeks, maybe four.

Maybe strength came from surviving what you had to.

"Open, John."

Sheppard's heart pounded, his hands felt clammy. It wasn't just a battle inside his mind, it was physical, visceral, to give up that part of him. Control, he'd always held onto his ability to control everything around him. And in less than three weeks this king had wrested it away from him solidly and assuredly, and it was all Sheppard could do to hold still right now.

Naem's dark, fathomless eyes locked with his, and the king repeated, "Open, John…_Jaem_."

Sheppard's lips parted, and his eyes closed again, he was breathing like he'd run a marathon. The meat was dropped into his mouth, and when it was over, he brought his teeth together and started chewing. It tasted like roast chicken, warm and still moist, with plenty of spices. It was greasy, and tasted better than any chicken he'd ever had. Even as he chewed, his nostrils flared from trying to slow his breathing down.

"Next, you shall learn how to eat while keeping your eyes open."

The way Naem said it, so earnestly, John almost laughed hard enough to spit out his mouthful of food, but he still kept his eyes closed.

OoO

Teyla seethed in her bed.

They had given up because of her, let themselves be recaptured, all because she had allowed her back to become infected, and fallen ill because of it. She was to blame, and now she was the one in bed resting while they labored outside.

"Are you in pain?"

The woman looking down at her was angry, but coolly polite. Something Teyla had done herself to strangers that visited Athos, and even to John and his people when she felt they were behaving poorly.

Growing tired with the belief that they were criminals, Teyla reached for the woman's arm, her teeth gritted against the pain she was actually in and she stressed, "We did not attack your people that night."

"You confessed."

The woman continued to hold Teyla's gaze and with measured care, pulled her arm free.

She should have known not to bother trying. In fairness, they had confessed, but it had been under duress, and Teyla had always believed that the truth of a matter would shine through the confusing murk of dishonesty. Turning away from the woman, and her cold face, Teyla pursed her lips together and said nothing more.

One refusal was not the end, and perhaps with time, the truth would be seen.

OoO

On the floor of the room he shared with Naem, John had scratched a rough facsimile of a calendar. He'd been out of bed since morning, and it'd been one day since he'd willingly began taking food from Naem's hand; one day since he truly felt like he'd lost something of himself in that bed. And unlike other milestones, like birthdays and awards, he did feel a hell of a lot different the day after.

Letting his head rest against the cold stone wall, John imagined he was being interviewed, on the red carpet like he was some movie star that had just won an Oscar…someone was thrusting a microphone in his face, asking him as he stood in front of cameras, "How do you feel today, John Sheppard? Do you feel any different?"

He'd stare at the cameras and say, "I'll never be the same again."

Not, "No, not really – I woke up today and put my pants on the same way I did every day. Nothing's really changed."

Because everything had. One moment of weakness, rolled into two, and now John wasn't sure where it would end. How far would he let Naem push him, how much would he give up to stay off that beam?

Shaking his head to dispel the daydream, John knew he wouldn't get any answers from himself because he wouldn't have believed he'd be sitting here to begin with, having already given in twice. There was a lot about him he hadn't believed, things in his past.

Sheppard knew he wasn't the kind of guy that inspired people to go out on a limb for him. His father had been pissed at him for most of his life, the military, hell, they were more fickle than his father. One minute handing him a helicopter and a promotion, the next, slapping him down with an under the table court martial, black marked, and sent off to wallow in his supposed sins, flying VIP's in an arctic wasteland.

But he had never given up on himself. Never stopped being true to what he thought about who he was…not till now.

With a frustrated sigh, Sheppard stretched his legs, and ran a hand over the rug where the calendar was. It didn't matter, he wasn't alone on this planet; McKay meant enough to the expedition that the Daedalus would come. Carson, too. Soldiers were easily replaced, top rated physicists and geneticists, not so much.

Anyway, he needed to get his head straight, because today he was supposed to resume lessons with Ascaria.

Knowing his time was running out, John started working on scratching out one of the fresh marks. The Lumival made scratching the stone even harder, but Sheppard had painstakingly managed to create a countdown this morning – he'd included a mark for today just so he could cross one out.

He'd decided to go with the highest estimate; six weeks. Seeing how two and a half very painful weeks were gone, that left just under four.

Staring at the thin lines etched in the stone surface, Sheppard told himself he could do this. Three weeks and change. Some how, some way, he'd endure the humiliation and let Naem think he was cooperating. He could almost gain courage from the countdown, but John knew he was risking a lot hovering over here behind the bed. He'd pulled the carpet up over his lap to try and mark it out of sight – give himself some time if anyone walked in on him, but it wouldn't do any good to be caught sitting here.

He got to his feet, smoothed out the wrinkles with his foot, and straightened his clothes. Naem had ordered more outfits made for him, and now he had matching tunics and pants in red, dark blue and black. They weren't really his style, but Sheppard was out for self-preservation after what he'd just gone through, and had kept his comments to himself this morning when Naem had given him the black set and ordered him to get dressed.

But he'd definitely thought it.

Talk about timing, just then the door opened and one of the guards…_Joros_…that was his name, poked his head in and waved. Guess time was up. Off to see the wizard, in this case, maybe the wicked witch of the east, seeing how Ascaria was like every mean teacher he'd ever had rolled into one woman.

On his first day she'd snitched on him, and he'd gotten hung up for a night of discomfort. The second day she'd snitched on him, and he'd gotten hung up for two weeks of sheer hell. Yeah, Sheppard wasn't bearing a lot of love for her right now, if ever, and the only reason he didn't hate her like he did Naem was only because her hands weren't the ones that locked him into the shackles, or made him eat food, or tried to tell him that all of this was for 'his own good'.

As they walked towards the library, John had finally figured out why he got turned around in this place. There weren't any stairs. The outer halls were sloped and he started paying attention to all the corners and the little idiosyncrasies in the floor and walls. It was almost like a maze built within a building, and the library was on a far side; north, south, east or west, he wasn't really sure yet.

The only thing he knew for certain was that this building was old, incredibly old, because the stone on the floor was polished from years of feet walking over it, rougher and duller on the edges of the corridor. Some patchwork was obvious because of the color differences in the mortar in a few places, and some of the rugs and wall hangings were so threadbare he wondered how they even held together.

Sheppard tried to stall and look at the scenes depicted on the murals, but the guard hurried him forward, not letting him pause. The large double doors were already open and Ascaria was sitting at the table, her brown hair braided. She turned at the sound of their approach, and offered him a guarded smile.

"Prince Jaem," she said.

"John."

Two weeks and she forgot his name.

She shook her head, dispelling his belief that it was a mistake.

"No, King Naem has declared since you are to be his heir, you shall bear the royal name of his son. He believes it will help ease the succession when it comes."

Sheppard opened his mouth to tell her, that regardless of what Naem had declared, he was still John, but then he thought again about the times before. Ascaria was her king's hand, if nothing else, and she would be sure to report back about Sheppard's _attitude_. Inhaling through his nose, he tried to keep the pissed look away. Judging from her severe scowl, John wasn't sure he'd succeeded all that much.

"So, reading," he said, clapping his hands together. Better to change the subject…

She indicated the seat beside her and opened the reader he'd worked in before. "Come, by the time today is through, you should be able to move into the next level. You are a very capable pupil."

They sat and studied until John's back ached, and then some more. But, by the time she closed the book with a flourish, her face beaming, Sheppard _could_ read beginning Arstaemian. He'd almost…enjoyed that.

Whatever he felt though, evaporated when he turned to find Naem watching them, the king's face inscrutable like it'd been when they'd first met. Sheppard was pretty sure the color had drained from his face. It must be dinner time, which meant they'd worked straight through the day.

"Sire, Prince Jaem has completed the beginning level!" gushed Ascaria.

For now, her pride in John as her pupil had suppressed her distaste for him as a person.

"Yes, Sire, Prince _Jaem_."

He probably shouldn't have said that, and dripping in sarcasm as it was. Stupid that Sheppard's mouth worked even when he didn't want it to.

It was just…it was his name, now! Sheppard had tried to consider what would be targeted next, but he hadn't seen it coming. This king had taken away his freedom, his control over everything around him, and now, he was taking away his identity.

Naem's eyes glittered. "Thank you, Ascaria, that is wonderful news."

She curtsied low. "Tomorrow, Sire?"

"Yes, tomorrow."

After she left, Naem turned to the doors, hands clasped and called, "Come with me, Jaem."

Reluctantly, John did. Naem led Sheppard down the corridor, out into the dusk. Guards had fallen alongside, all but one he recognized. The path to the town lay ahead and Sheppard couldn't help feel a thrill at the thought that maybe he would get to see his team. It'd been so long, felt like ages, and he had asked about them after he'd gotten his senses sorted, only to be told they were fine. When he tried to press for details, Naem had withdrawn, leaving Sheppard to sleep and heal.

As they walked the path, bright flashes of light would come and go, and always in different places. John tried to see what was causing it, but the sun had set and even though total darkness was still an hour away, he couldn't make out the cause because of the little daylight that remained. Was it a firefly?

"I see you like our winter faeries."

Another light, this one so near his face that he flinched. "Winter faeries?"

Naem slowed his stride and pointed in front of them, and sure enough, a second later another flash, there and gone in a heartbeat. "They only appear before it snows and during the winter. We always know when spring arrives, because the winter faeries leave us."

They kind of reminded John of those energy bugs from the planet with the marooned wraith. "Pretty," he admitted.

Naem chuckled. "And dangerous. They've been the death of many people."

Alarm raced through John, and he tried to shuck his skin inside his clothes more. Were the bugs poisonous? Their bite deadly, what?

"See how much you must learn!" Naem gestured at the wide fields of grass stretching out towards the woods. They could already hear the river flowing to their right. The town wasn't much farther. "In the winter, we have snows so fierce that you can see nothing, barely your own hand in front of you. People caught out when a storm comes cannot find their way home. The winter faeries have made many believe they see brief glances of candlelight in windows, and they steer their feet towards those lights only to find they keep changing, and desperate, the people alter their course, seeking any shelter."

"They freeze to death."

Soberly, Naem nodded. "We find their bodies some times beside buildings and roads, but when the cold has overtaken your blood, nothing can save you."

Sheppard lost himself in watching the bugs flit through the air for the rest of the walk. All Naem's explanation had done was make him realize just how much he missed Atlantis, his team, all the things he'd come to know and care about. Winter faeries, blizzards, towns and mad kings – none of this was what he'd wanted.

The first hint of true candlelight appeared around the bend, and Sheppard shivered more. Naem noticed and frowned at the thin silk clothes, but didn't say anything. They came to a door and though the door itself was new, Sheppard recognized the building. He'd been here, that first night…

Joros banged in three quick hits and stepped back.

The door opened, spilling warmth and light, and Sheppard found himself grinning.

Beckett squinted at them in the darkness before he realized who it was, and straightened, stepping aside. "Come in, Sire."

John's step faltered at hearing the title come from Carson's lips, but it made sense. John himself had called him by his title when…before.

The fire against the far wall blazed heat into the room; stew simmered. Dishes were on the table, and Sheppard realized they'd interrupted his team's dinner. He wished…

It was stupid. He couldn't change what had happened, and he couldn't ask for his team to be brought to the manse and risk them seeing what Naem was putting him through. It was humiliating enough having servants watch as Naem fed him, bathed him, picked his clothes and sent him to his lessons. No, this was preferable, for all of them. Still…

"Hi, guys."

Ronon grunted, didn't even get up, just kept eating. But his eyes raked over Sheppard and took in his clothes, his…everything. Rodney was less cursory in his appraisal but he nodded and said, "You look well."

"Yeah," Sheppard agreed around the lump in his throat. "I'm good."

"Teyla's spending the night at -"

Naem stepped in front of Carson. "As you can see, your companions are fine."

"Could I have an hour?" he asked. John had to try. Just one hour to sit and catch up, talk to them. He was alone in the manse, no one but Naem's people around, and everything he did was watched carefully. Although, he almost laughed bitterly, a good chunk of that time had been spent going nowhere anyway, so all the guards had to do was stand there and look impressive.

He saw the irritated look on McKay's face when he asked Naem for permission to stay, saw the scowl on Ronon's, and surprise on Caron's. What'd they expect him to do? Demand to be given time together?

Maybe they did, but that was only because they had no idea of what such a demand would cost him, and Sheppard wasn't ready to go there again. Not so soon. He'd only today been able to move his arms without the deep ache taking over his mind. If he wasn't willing to risk the beam by refusing to eat from Naem's hand, how could they possibly think he'd do something so stupid as challenge his authority in front of his guards and them?

That was the crux of the matter; they didn't know. And frankly, John didn't want them to. Torture was one thing, but the fact that he'd bent to Naem's will, had allowed the man to dominate him and force Sheppard to obey and do what the king wanted…no, that was his own personal hell to bear, and hopefully, it'd remain that way.

"Not today, it's growing dark and I must see Kaleb before we return to the manse."

Naem's refusal was brusque, and without waiting to see what reaction Sheppard would have, he turned for the door. Baela opened it, and followed Naem outside, Joros and the other guard, leaving John and the guard he didn't know inside.

Ronon, Rodney and Carson watched him, as if waiting to see what he'd do. Winter faeries, he wanted to say, decoys leading to a man's death. Naem had brought him here not just to see how his teammates were doing, but to see how far the two weeks on the beam would take him.

With a bitter twist of his lips, Sheppard realized far enough, as he smiled tightly, and followed through the door.


	4. Chapter 4

"Did you see that?"

"Rodney, eat your dinner." Carson frowned at the door, though. He'd seen it, and looking away, he caught Ronon's contemplative stare, and knew they all had a lot to think about.

"I'm not going to ignore what's happening, and if both of you are willing to stick your heads in the sand, fine, but don't expect me to go along with you."

McKay snapped up his bowl, and strode to the bedroom he shared with Ronon, slamming the door.

Ronon drank his wine and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. "I don't see any sand."

"That's not what he meant."

"I know that."

Ronon stared at him amiably and bit into his bread. Carson sighed, dropping his spoon. "Of course you do. Was it just me, or did the colonel seem…different?"

"Wasn't just you."

Ronon got up, dumped his bowl in the water, then walked over to stoke the fire. The large log broke in half, blowing puffs of ash and sparks into the air. The charred black coals gleamed in the stone hearth; warmth. Coming back had been worth it. They had slept in beds again last night, with blankets, and a roof over their head. The banked fire kept the bungalow warm enough that the morning chill was easily gone by the time breakfast was heated. A table, and a sink – aye, Carson knew they'd made the right choice.

Teyla was going to stay overnight in the Home of Healing, but the Arstaemians had developed antibiotics on their own, and they'd gotten her medical help in time that she'd recover. They'd tried to make an escape, and it hadn't worked out. Now they would wait for the Daedalus, watch autumn fall to winter, and be thankful for the shelter they had.

The back breaking work in the fields was almost done and their jobs would turn to inside things. Weaving, cooking, repairing – all in all, Carson could imagine worse ways to spend the next month.

Even though, lifting his own mug of hot mulled wine to his lips, Carson couldn't shake the image of Sheppard's smile before he'd followed Naem through the doorway. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something wasn't right.

Would Colonel Sheppard truly allow himself to be lulled by Naem? It had seemed like the king had some kind of influence over Sheppard, and Carson didn't like the implications of that one bit. No more than Rodney had.

Finishing his drink, he dumped his bowl and spoon in the sink as well, and headed to his own room. "Good night, Ronon. I'll get the dishes in the morning."

OoO

Naem brooded the entire way back to the manse, letting John spend the cold trip lost in his own thoughts. Kaleb had reported a shortage on the final harvests which meant it would be a lean winter for all. The children he had living in the top floor of the manse would be fed enough, but the children in the town would not have enough without supplementing the people's harvest from his stores.

Still, between what they could hunt and what they had stored, they would live.

The traditional mid-winter feast would fall entirely on his household this year. He would talk to Gaemal about extra meat to be salted and set aside. This year the celebration was especially meaningful, because this year at mid-winter he would have John crowned as prince.

As they approached the door, a gust of wind drew nettles of rain into his skin, and they hurried the rest of the way. By morning, it will have turned to ice, and the grounds would shine like glass in the sun, branches bowed under the weight of the frozen water.

As he ordered dinner to be brought to his chamber and handed off his cloak to a servant, Naem added winter clothing to his list of things to get for John.

For _Jaem_.

He'd told the manse servants and guards to call John by that name, and Naem knew the storm from that action was still waiting to break. The people had accepted it without question, but John had looked less than pleased earlier. Name had almost believed the defiance would come in the home, surrounded by his companions, which is why he brought him there – a small test to see how far John had come.

Jaem had held his tongue and obeyed. The two weeks on the beam had been worth the pain. Just how much, though, Naem still had to find out.

His chamber was warm. His private room distanced from the eastern hall where the orphans lived.

Here he had privacy and peace. Gaemal had tried to talk him into moving into his father's chambers, but Naem had never been able to leave the room he had shared with his brother as a boy. The only time he had left was when he had taken his wife, but then she had died, and so had his son, and left Naem no reason to live in those big rooms by himself.

Here he was trained; had lived, and it was always this room that called to him. Every time he had tried to leave, tragedy brought him back.

With John, Naem was afraid.

Afraid that if he returned to the larger rooms with the extra space and luxuries, that John would be taken from him. That he'd lose Jaem all over again.

At the threshold of his room, Naem sent John in with a nod of his head, and turned to Joros. "There is no need for any of you to keep duty during the night. When you return in the morning make sure breakfast is on the way."

"Yes, Sire."

Joros and Baela left, the other two having split off at the main entrance. Naem had insisted they stay before because John needed the intimidation. Now, he needed the privacy.

The tray was waiting, and John sat the table, fingering one of the game pieces between two fingers, his head resting on the palm of his hand. Naem approached him, looking at what he held. "It is the king," he explained.

"I figured."

"Say it now, Jaem, before it festers and you cause yourself more discomfort in the end."

The game piece was clutched in a fist, and John lifted his eyes to meet Naem's. "Why take my name? When I've given you everything else, why that?"

"Because, you are my son – I see it now." Naem sat in the chair opposite and took the wooden figure from John's hand. "Not literally my child; Jaem died a long time ago, but you are a gift from the Ancestors, sent to replace my Jaem, and my test was to realize your importance and be strong enough to do what must be done. You are the prince we will need, it is autumn, Jaem, and when autumn arrives, the cold winter threatens my people, your people, and they need an heir to stay strong."

"What did you do last year?"

John's eyes looked lost.

"We were culled. And again this year, we were culled. What was once every few generations became every generation, then every half-generation, until now it is once a year, every autumn, and they had come days before you arrived. Bitter days where my people felt we were at our end."

Naem lifted the queen, carved from the hardwood of the evergreens that grew in the mountains, and set her next to the king. "I thought _you_ were that end, but it was not until I had began to walk through the thick leaves of fall that I was able to see the answer. You will end that cycle, John…_Jaem_. Every step I take is to that end; I want my people to live," he declared, slamming his fist against the checkered table.

He jumped, then, not enough that someone across the room would notice, but Naem had. So, John was still afraid of him. That was for the best, because it was time to eat, and Naem only wanted to sleep tonight. It would be so easy to let John feed himself, so that he could drift off, visit his wife again, his son…

"Come and eat, it has already grown cold, I fear."

Naem waited for John to sit, ignored how the man closed his eyes and breathed hard. He spooned the stew into John's mouth and pictured Jaem.

OoO

Sheppard scratched through another line and did a mental count. Two more weeks gone, four total, and soon the Daedalus would arrive. He pulled the carpet over the marks, and scooted till his back was against the stone wall and sat.

The Lumival made him lethargic, and if it weren't for the food shortage, he was sure he would've gained weight for the lack of exercise.

Everyone called him Jaem now; in the manse and in the town. He'd seen glimpses of his team. They worked all day, slept all night, living normal lives from what he could tell. He'd also caught sight of his double, the man Naem had appearing around the grounds as him. Ascaria had explained that it was for the people to see him enough that they accepted, and believed, and could hope again.

He didn't care about that, but he did care that his team was out there living their lives without any awareness of what he was going through.

Even as the thought formed, another took its place – he was just as relieved that they didn't know.

Torn between having them believe he was living it up and thinking that he was ignoring them, letting himself be twisted into something else willingly…it made him feel a different kind of sick and frustrated than what he felt at Naem's hands, or feeling sicker inside at the thought of them actually knowing.

Of the two, he preferred the latter.

He was jealous of them – that they got to share stories about their day, eat together, be together – while he lived a life of submission and private abuse. Naem hadn't allowed him to feed himself yet. He'd taken away everything John had that had made him Colonel Sheppard, and shoved the accouterments of Prince Jaem down his throat. The clothes, title, and the _training_.

He'd spent most days bent over a book learning the language from Ascaria.

She'd at least lost some of the coldness, and John had showed her how to play rock, paper, scissors when she'd promised to let him teach _her_ something from his planet if he passed the senior level after only two days of study on the material.

The thing with reading is that once you get the process down, it's not hard learning a new language if someone is there to explain it. The gate acting as a universal translator was a theory Rodney had proposed what felt like lifetimes ago, and however it worked, the ability for Ascaria to make the letters into sounds he understood proved to be the critical point. After that, it was just memorization, and he had a really good memory.

John had read about the history of the royal family, the practices of training each successive generation, and as painful as he could attest for some of it to be, Sheppard had to admit it'd apparently worked.

In the days since the Ancients had left Atlantis on the bottom of the ocean floor, Arstaem had been ruled by Naem's family, and by all rights, with fairness. Evil, despotic princes weren't a possibility after the training was finished because the prince would not be set free of the process until the mental discipline had been achieved. The physical hardships, the strict enforcement of rules, the entire procedure from the time a prince was old enough, to when he accepted the crown, was geared towards exposing unstable minds and a man or woman incapable of controlling impulses.

He'd also learned the sordid history of Naem's family. His father, Haem, had died of a disease the healers hadn't been able to cure. His mother, brother, two sisters – all died from this same mysterious plague. As far back as John could tell, the only thing that the royal family died from _was_ this disease.

There were some isolated deaths, from drowning and exposure, a few like Naem's wife that had died in childbirth, but the bulk, and this was a lot of lives, died from the disease that haunted Naem's family line.

It was almost enough to make him feel sorry for the king…but not quite.

Naem took him out on walks through the forest, showed him his twin hunting birds; falcons. Zayre and Aarye. When the first snow fell, Naem let him walk the grounds as if John had been an excited kid granted a rare snow day. The fur cloak that had been made for him was warm and he'd lingered outside just to be away from the memories that grew every day within the stone walls.

Two weeks that had passed in the blink of an eye and in the ages of a lifetime. As contradictory as his entire life in this manse.

Rodney had managed to sneak in once more, and this time, because of his success at learning to read, or maybe it was just that enough time had passed, Ascaria didn't snitch when he was gone longer than a trip to the bathroom would've called for. Still, John had made it as fast as he could, and McKay had taken it personal, accusing him of wanting to rush back to be with Ascaria.

With a huff, he'd snarled that Teyla had recovered and they were doing fine, thanks for the concern. He'd left the closet first, leaving John behind, stunned, not even knowing what Teyla had recovered from.

Isolated, alone, stripped of even his name, John was having a hard time hanging on. As beautiful as winter was, he still had to deal with the ugliness inside.

When his head nodded forward, Sheppard realized it'd grown late. After Ascaria had finished, she'd confessed that he'd done so well she didn't have any lessons planned for tomorrow. John got an unexpected day off, and though Naem hadn't said anything, John had made the assumption he had to say in the private chambers.

Knowing he should get up and go to the bed, John merely shifted into a more comfortable position. Lethargic…yeah, that was a good description for what that stuff did to him. Made his entire body reluctant to move, all the time.

He let his eyes drift closed; he'd only rest for a moment…

"What is this?"

The question was soft, and John wasn't sure he was dreaming it or if Naem was really there, leaning towards him, the rug pulled back –

No, he was awake, that sudden sick feeling that raced through his gut made sure he knew that. John tried to shake off his grogginess, to explain his calendar so that Naem didn't realize what it was for.

How could he be so stupid as to fall asleep?

"It's nothing," he said. "I was just keeping track of how many days have gone by."

Naem jerked his hand, releasing the rug so that it covered the marks. "They are counting down to something, Jaem." He grabbed John by his arms and pulled him to his feet. "Tell me, what are you counting down to?"

The end of subjugation, asshole.

It's what John would've said, if he hadn't been afraid of being hung for another two weeks. Even though that'd be about time for the Daedalus to arrive, John would prefer returning to Atlantis on both feet rather than carted in a wheelchair or drugged to his gills, and if Naem put him in shackles and left him like that again, ever, Sheppard was pretty sure drugged would be the necessary fix. The remembered pain wasn't fading fast enough.

But then again, that was probably the point.

"I guessed at when it'd first snow based off of what you said," he tried a different explanation and smiled crookedly. "Guess I was off by a couple of weeks." He never had lied worth a damn.

Naem wasn't buying it. Sheppard tensed, trying to think about his options. He was bringing up his hands to push up, get to his feet and try to defend himself. John wasn't going to go willingly back into those chains – what'd he have to lose at this point? It was two weeks until the Daedalus showed, shouldn't be any later than that, and really, the ship might arrive from any point between now and then.

And the one thing Naem had let slip was his inability to kill John now. He'd replaced his dead son with him, and Sheppard didn't believe Naem would blithely take his life anymore.

His back literally against a wall, John's hands up, Naem surprised him by straightening, turning, and striding from the room.

There were no guards. Sheppard was alone, and unlike before, he didn't think there was a guard outside the door. It was night, so there wouldn't be people around. He'd never have another shot like he had now.

Scrambling to his feet, John paused only long enough to grab the fur cloak. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he sure as hell wasn't going to stay here to be strung up like a sheep for the slaughter. He'd known etching the countdown was a risk, and if he hadn't been so damn drugged, John wouldn't have fallen asleep literally on the evidence.

The hallway was empty, and Sheppard didn't wait to see if it'd stay that way. He ran, bumping along the wall. The Lumival would be wearing off soon, all he had to do was get into the woods and wait for it to get out of his system, then he would try to get to the town and his team.

Whether there were more exits and entrances, he didn't know, but he didn't see Naem as he took each corridor unsteadily. The large doors leading outside were in front of him now, and throwing the cloak around his shoulders, Sheppard pushed it open.

Cold air blew into his face, snow swirled up from the ground and into his body. He disappeared into the inky blackness of night, shutting the door behind him. As he broke towards the woods on the opposite side of the manse, Sheppard looked up at the clouds. The air smelled like winter; snow was coming down hard, and he shivered. It was cold, cold enough that if he didn't keep moving, he'd be liable to die from hypothermia, but could he really keep moving all night?

The answer was that he'd do what he had to. The alternative was to go back there and be punished, subjugated and broken further. The small defiances he'd clung to, like the calendar, had been all John had to keep himself together. Freedom for the first time in a month was in his grasp, and Sheppard wasn't going to let it slip away.

The shoes Naem had given him to wear with his silk clothes weren't thick enough, and soon the snow on the ground made his toes grow cold, then warm, until finally numb. The cloak he kept wrapped so tight he swore he'd suffocate.

He made it to the tree line, and then plunged deeper, always keeping his mind on where the road was so that he could double back and make for the town tomorrow. He had a long twenty-four hours ahead, but if he could find shelter for the night, he might be able to bury himself under leaves and stay warm enough to get some rest; once he was far enough away from the manse.

A winter night in the forest was still; quiet, the only sounds were the soft fall of snowflakes on the tree limbs and ground. Every now and then he would hear a louder, soft, thwump, and he knew it was the drifts on the thin branches falling to the forest floor when they'd grown to big to stay balanced.

The animals hibernated in their burrows. His feet squeaked in the dry snow. Tall trunks loomed like shadowy sentinels all around him. The moon was hidden by clouds, no starlight to see by, only a heavy darkness all around. John knew this was dangerous – he could get lost easily, without any familiarity of the area, and deprived of any senses to note landmarks to find his way out when morning came. Sheppard's feet slowed and he thought about going back.

He could survive Naem's twisted training, but he wouldn't survive exposure. _Damn it!_

They never should've came here, he should've never let Elizabeth come back, and Sheppard had known he shouldn't have returned. The foreboding he'd felt was his instinct trying to tell him to stay the hell away from Naem. He'd recognized the danger, even subconsciously, and now it was too late.

He paused, breathing in ragged breaths that hurt because of how cold the air was.

_There! _

When he'd taken the last step, another had fallen behind him, and then stopped after he had. Sheppard had felt he was being followed, but by what? By Naem and his guards? They wouldn't stalk him, they'd rush up and capture him, because he was alone, unarmed, and worth more to Naem alive than dead. The king wouldn't waste time in getting Sheppard back to the manse and warmed up. Even while enduring the agony on the beam, Naem had cared for him.

The king had feared Sheppard when they first met, but somewhere along the way he'd turned that fear into something else, something only definable to the twisted thoughts that Naem had access to.

Stalking him wasn't Naem's style, so what was it?

Sheppard narrowed his eyes and paused, holding completely still, not even breathing. Slowly, he rotated his upper body, scanning for any sign of what was behind him. A break in the pure night, a shadow that didn't run straight up towards the sky…

Like the night itself gave birth to the monster, the large gray blur ran at him from between two dark trees. Indistinguishable until the yellow eyes were in the air coming for his neck, Sheppard only had time to raise his arms in front of his head.

OoO

The furiousness he felt drove Naem from his chambers. He had been a hairsbreadth from striking Jaem. The calendar was a countdown, for something. A rescue, an escape, what?

Fingers clenched painfully into a fist, Naem ignored his nails biting into his own skin. Betrayed, after all he'd done for John. He'd spared his companions, he had caused the death of one his own people to set the course where Jaem could be his son again.

Naem had allowed his four companions to suffer no floggings after their escape; had the woman cared for by his own healer. Had taught Jaem their history; taken him out into the woods and shared his love of hunting with his falcons.

And Jaem had lied to him! Lied to his father, and a son should never, ever lie to his father…to his _king_.

But Haem had also taught him the lesson that a father should never strike his child in anger. Training must be done with a gentle hand, and always love. Training born from hatred would destroy a prince.

The corridor had led him to the door that opened into the wing that housed his guards. They had their own homes in town, but shifts were rotated on nightly basis with half their numbers needing to be on hand at the manse in case they were needed. Yes, Naem would need two guards. Jaem would not willingly go into his shackles tonight.

Two weeks again?

He sighed at the memory; it had not been any more pleasant for him than it had been for Jaem, but, Naem did not think two weeks would be necessary again. Days, this time, but how many he would decide by looking into Jaem's eyes. Two at the least, no more than six.

Naem did not knock, he pushed the doors open, and spied Joros reading in bed. The man with the square beard and bald head quickly closed the book with a snap and stood. "Sire?"

"I need help with…Jaem."

Joros did not ask for further information; he snapped at Baela, and the two pulled on their breeches and followed Naem out of their quarters. When Naem opened his door and found Jaem gone, his winter cloak as well, he felt sick. What had he done? He'd grown complacent, lulled, and had slackened the guards. John had escaped, but what he'd run into was far more dangerous than the boy realized. The Luperes had been sighted not far from the manse two days past. The children were not allowed to play except during mid-day, and always with a cadre of guards armed with swords.

And Jaem had rushed into the woods to escape the punishment he knew was earned; rushed into the arms of death.

"Gather the guard, we have no time to spare in finding him!"

Naem grabbed his own cloak and rushed to his cabinet, sliding his sword free of the scabbard. He rarely used the weapon, but tonight he feared Jaem's life would depend upon it.

By the time they had ran into the woods on the eastern side of the manse, a full cadre of guards waited with torches. They found his footsteps in the snow easily enough, thankfully, the blizzard was holding, at the cusp of breaking free form the clouds above. Naem was afraid. As he followed his guards deep into the forest, he was afraid of what they would find.

If a Lupere had already found Jaem first…

He gripped the handle of his sword, and forced the dangerous thoughts from his mind. John…_Jaem_ would be fine.

Naem would find him, bring him home and scold him within an inch of his life. Maybe the beam would not be needed to make him understand that Jaem needed to confess the reason for the hidden countdown scratched on Naem's floor.

Wind gusted, lifting the fur lined hood and tossing it against the back of his head.

They crept, swords out, following the staggered steps of a drugged boy. When the cry rose ahead, Naem did not wait for his guards, he broke into a run so fast he could feel the cold reaching in and snatching the air from his lungs.

The Lupere had Jaem on the ground, tearing at his arm, pulling and growling. The beast was the size of Jaem and it was going to win. It was going to take his son from him, and Naem was not going to let Jaem die. Naem would rather die himself than live through that again – John had been a gift from the Ancestors. His Jaem, returned, strong and warm, breathing, with hair still soft and dark like when he had first laid eyes on him on his mother's belly.

He screamed, and ran, sword gripped solidly in both hands. The animal had only time to release Jaem before Naem's sword skewered her. The female Luperes were always the dangerous ones.

She howled in pain, twisted and tried to pull free of the metal's bite, but before she could, his guards descended, Joros and Baela at the front, plunging their own steel into her. She cried, whimpered then Joros pulled his blade free and brought it down swiftly through her neck to end her torment.

The snow was colored red. Naem knelt by Jaem's side, the sword the only thing holding him up. "Jaem…" he breathed, reaching for the boy's face. "Ancestors!" Naem turned to his guards. "Help him, now!"

Jaem's face, pale and white as the snow he rested in. Lifting the limp head to his chest, Naem lowered his lips to the boy's forehead, his heart pounding. "You will be fine, Jaem. I swear it. I am sorry, so sorry – I have failed to keep you safe, but it will not happen again." His sword had fallen in the snow, forgotten. Naem ran his trembling fingers through Jaem's hair. "Do not leave me again, please."

"Sire, let us take him. We must get him to the manse."

Naem didn't want to let him go, afraid if he took his hands off Jaem, his life would leak out from his body, but Joros was lifting Jaem in tender arms. The manse, yes. Healers and help and they would make sure Jaem did not die this time.

He breathed hard, his nostrils flared, and Naem gripped his sword again, using the tip to dig into the frozen ground and help him to his feet. The dead Lupere lay forgotten to the side. He followed behind Joros, walking fast, Jaem's life depending on it now.

Naem's hands stuck to his sword, sticky with blood; whose blood? Jaem's or the Luperes?

The trail they left was thick with drops of red, melting snow in their wake. Tomorrow he would send Gaemal out to retrieve the beast and have the skin stripped, cured and made into a new cloak for Jaem. He knew his man would have no trouble finding the way.

Hours passed, or was it less? They arrived back at the manse, and Jaem was whisked away to Naem's private chamber. Healers arrived and began to bathe his wounds. He had deep furrows from the Lupere's claws on his arms and even some on his face and belly. His left was the worst, deep bite wounds on his forearm. The only blessing was that Jaem was so far lost in his pain that he was not aware of the Leal cleaning and sewing his injuries. By the time she was finished, Naem had suffered enough for them both.

"He will need rest, a great deal of it. And Sire, no Lumival until we know the danger of sepsis is past."

Leal's face was severe. Jaem's life hung in the balance; he understood. But he also turned cold eyes onto her and said, "Leal, if he dies, I will not forgive you this time." She had been the young woman who had held and sobbed over his dead infant son.

Instead of anger or fear, Leal appeared defeated. "I failed Jaem once, Sire. I will not fail him again."

He let her leave, knowing she would remain nearby until the crisis was over. Naem himself needed to bathe. He could not touch Jaem with his blood encrusted hands.

Still, he dropped to the chair one of his guards had brought near the bed and stared at Jaem's face. Pale, still, free of the worry and strain Naem had seen so much lately. Innocent, and childlike.

Unable to resist the urge, he ran his fingers through Jaem's hair. Naem had loved his hair all those years ago, and lowering his face into it now, Naem loved it anew. He sobbed into the soft thickness smelling of sweat, and pain; burying his own face against Jaem's. He could not lose his child again, not even this life could be so cruel.

OoO

McKay stood obstinately outside the manse doors. "I want to see Sheppard."

It had been a week since he'd last seen the colonel. He'd said some things he regretted, and it'd been eating him alive since then. Teyla had finally confronted him after he'd snapped her head off over her growing friendship with a village woman. Right then, McKay had felt betrayed by just about everyone. Teyla, John…even Carson and Ronon, because they all seemed to be adjusting to the life of servitude a lot easier than he was.

Carson had been the one to say they needed to turn themselves in, and while intellectually, he knew the choice had been the only one that would've saved Teyla, it still galled him that they'd escaped and then had to go back with their tails tucked between their legs.

Sheppard's bravado rubbing off on him, no doubt, as annoying as it was.

The woman Teyla had been increasingly talking with had been decidedly unfriendly at first, but something Teyla had said to her had broken through the anger and resentment most of the people had against them. The false confession kept them isolated from most; who wants to sit around and drink with the people who burnt up your winter supply of food?

McKay's normal taciturn attitude hadn't won him any openings.

"Prince Jaem has ordered me to tell you he does not wish to see you."

The servant delivered her proclamation like it was a royal decree. Rodney glowered. "Jaem? His name is John. John Sheppard, not Prince, or Jaem, or anything else. Colonel John Sheppard – remind him of that for me, would you?" he snarled.

The servant remained inscrutable. "Doctor McKay, please return to the town. You have food to take back to the others, and you are not welcome inside. Do not make me call for the guards and create a scene. His Majesty would be displeased."

"Yes, well, so am I." Rodney turned away from the doors, disgruntled. "Definitely displeased."

The loaded cart waited, filled with the vegetables from the cellars in the manse. Glaring at something that looked like a pumpkin, McKay jerked the leather harness off the pile and slipped it on, thankful for the fact that his blisters had healed and gone. He'd lost weight with the enforced physical labor, and gained muscle. Only five weeks, and he was in better shape than ever, but he hadn't wanted to be in the first place. All he wanted was for the Daedalus to get here, rescue them from this screwed up planet, and get them back to Atlantis.

Prince _John_ needed his royal head deflated.

Instead of sitting through lessons on Arstaem history, Sheppard should've been trying to figure out who had orchestrated the entire set-up, but then again, McKay had already figured who was behind it, and in that case, the colonel probably already knew.

As much as Sheppard seemed to be going along with Naem's twisted plan, Rodney knew that he hadn't willingly been involved in the events that had led them to this point.

But he damn well was getting the better end of the deal.

The trip back to town was longer and harder, Sheppard's refusal to see him sitting like a rock in his stomach. He delivered the food to Kaleb, then headed for the bungalow. He had some equipment that needed repairing and he'd dropped it off there so he could work in peace, without the accusing unfriendly stares of everyone else.

When he opened the door, Teyla was sewing by the fire. She looked up and smiled at him warmly. "Rodney, how was the colonel?"

"Busy, apparently."

He shut the door firmly, and shrugged out of the heavy cloak, hanging it to dry on the peg fixed into the mortar. The plow blade was on the floor not far from where she worked, and Rodney picked up his basket of tools and headed her way. "Ronon and Carson?"

"Helping Kaleb distribute this week's rations, I am surprised you did not see them." She stopped working and laid the cloth on her lap. "Colonel Sheppard would not see you?"

"No, he wouldn't."

Disgusted, McKay sat on the floor, pulling the broken section free.

She frowned at him. "Rodney, John is not our enemy."

The part stuck in the rigging, and McKay began to work on prying it free. It was a piece with thick steel spikes to tear up the ground, and instead of screws or bolts, the bit was a single plank of steel with teeth that slid into grooves on the handle. "No, maybe you should tell him…that." With a grunt, he pushed it free using a tool for leverage but it gave so fast, the tool ended up scraping his knuckles. "Damn it!" he swore, sticking the scraped hand in his mouth.

"I agree the circumstances appear to favor him, but remember, it was not Colonel Sheppard that made the decision."

Rodney stopped sucking on his sore knuckle and looked at Teyla. She'd been different since she'd recovered; more subdued. "Tell me you don't resent this? That he's being treated like royalty while we are slaves for an entire town, reviled by most of the small people?" He huffed. "I'll say it, I'm petty and self-indulgent. I would changes places with him in a heartbeat, and he won't even talk to me."

She sighed, and smiled ruefully. "You miss him. And you are not any more self-indulgent than the rest of us."

His hand paused above the steel bit. "I do miss him," he admitted, almost surprised by it. Then, "You're jealous to?"

"He is dressed in fine silks, living in a great manse, being taught history and spending his day walking through the woods. His life is one of ease, Rodney, and ours has been anything but…of course I am envious. We all are, but we should try not to blame John for a situation he has no control over."

She was right, of course. At least, mostly, but as Rodney wrenched the broken spike free of the metal, he asked the one question that was eating him alive. "Then why hasn't he used his influence to help us?"

OoO

"Rodney?"

Someone was sitting nearby reading to him; all John could understand was the low, constant cadence of a voice rising and falling in speech, the pacing of words that comes from being read to and not overheard conversations.

He'd woken before in the infirmary, enough to hear McKay reading softly, usually something from the Ancients database, but some times Rodney had snuck into John's quarters and taken War and Peace, picking up from wherever Sheppard had last left off with his bookmark.

It'd always been those times when he wasn't fully able to wake the rest of the way, a semi-consciousness, and Sheppard never did ask him about it later. Since Rodney never brought it up, John had figured he'd let sleeping dogs lie, and secretly, he'd never wanted Rodney to stop.

"Hush, Jaem, you must rest."

Jaem. The sinking knowledge of where he was rushed back on the wings of pain. He was sick, hurt – the animal had bitten him. Dimly, he felt the fever in his bones. Felt the disconnected ache. "I wanna see Rodney…" he slurred.

He heard the sounds of a book closing, and someone moving, then it grew quiet. He wanted to open his eyes, see who was there, try to wake up from this confused state, but his body wasn't cooperating.

Moments later, footsteps and soft voices were back, this time talking amongst themselves, but he understood some of it. He heard them say something about his fever being too high, sepsis and then someone was grabbing his arm and holding it down.

"No!" he cried, trying to feebly pull away, because he knew they were going to do something that was going to hurt – oh, God, they wouldn't cut off his arm…please, no. "Doc…get Doc!" John's shouts were louder and more panicked.

"It will be fine, shhhh, Jaem. Leal, do something for him!"

A cool flask touched his lips and John tried to turn. He didn't want anymore drugs; they were going to take his arm…"No, get 'way!" Sheppard started pulling harder…God, no, not this, "Don't, please," he begged.

His jaw was held, his mouth forced open, and the liquid trickled in, almost choking him as John fought to keep it from going down his throat. Strong, firm hands massaged his throat, soothing him with sounds he didn't understand, until the drug was down and it was too hard to fight anymore. "Don't take my arm." It was weak and whispered, and Sheppard was scared they didn't hear him at all.

A hand wiped across his sweating forehead as Naem soothed, "Your arm will be fine, Jaem, I promise, rest, Son, please, just rest…"

As strong as his fear was, it wasn't stronger than the drug, and Sheppard drifted away to the soothing motion of Naem stroking his hair away from his face.

OoO

Exhaustion was not something Naem had felt in a long, long time, but it was exactly what he felt now. Jaem had become seriously ill from the Lupere's bite. He had been hallucinating, and crying out about having his arm cut off, but where he had gotten that idea, Naem could not imagine.

He had soothed his son until the drug had taken him from this misery and pain, and now left him cradled in sleep. Why had he been so careless as to let this happen?

Satisfied that he could leave Jaem for a short time, he stretched out of the chair and lingered only an extra moment to stare at the rugged face, taking in every detail, from the flushed cheeks to the sweat dampened hair.

He was alive, and Naem would not make the same mistake twice.

Jaem had been wrong to etch the calendar, and when he was healed, Naem would tell him that his punishment had been enough in light of the Lupere attack and infection, but it must not happen again.

Needing the peace of his falcons, Naem entered the aviary, shaking off the snow from the short walk. The stone building had a domed ceiling like the library had, to give the illusion of heights.

Zarye and Aarye were not fooled, a gilded cage was still a cage, but he gave them their freedom every day, and they had always returned to his arm when they were finished hunting.

Aarye came to him first, swooping off the large tree he had planted before they were born. Pulling the raw meat he had grabbed from the kitchens on his way, he held it to her beak. "Hello, Aarye…"

She grabbed the morsel, jerked her head up and swallowed in two quick moves, before turned her head into his hand for him to pet the chestnut brown feathers.

Zarye was the jealous sort, and flocked beside his twin, looking eagerly, his head cocked. Naem chuckled, and threw the male bird his own tidbit, not surprised when the falcon caught the piece mid-air.

A month ago, he had only had his birds. His people had been drifting far from him, and Naem had grown increasingly solitary, choosing instead to spend his days roaming with his falcons. Now, he had almost everything. His people's love again, John…his Jaem, his son returned to him, and his training was challenging enough to make him feel young, invigorated, _alive_.

He still had his falcons, and the wraith culling was behind them, hopefully for good.

Even though Jaem was very sick, Naem was sure Leal would heal him, and it would be one more step closer to the crowning. Mid-winter was another month away, and the feast and ceremony would be of the kind they had not seen since Naem himself had been crowned.

Zarye nipped at Aarye, causing the female to jump at him, and soon they were chasing each other around the straw floor. Naem's smile reached his eyes tonight and he stayed for a while, throwing them the small pieces until they were gone. When he stood, he realized morning was dawning. He called goodbye to his falcons, and left the enclosure, his feet leading him somewhere he had not even been fully cognizant in choosing.

Behind the aviary was the family cemetery. There a mausoleum rose up like the cliffs that were on the other side of the forest. He had only seen them once, when he had been very young. His father had granted him the time to go. He had left at the start of autumn and returned on the heels of winter. There, a great vastness of water joined with rock in a seamless line; birds of all kinds lived there, and if it had been possible, he would have brought some home with him. It had been beautiful and wild, and Naem had almost wanted to stay.

When he returned, he had described the wonders he had seen to his father.

The building that had stood before in this spot had been crumbling, the old stone so weathered and worn that the small patches of mortar were never enough. Naem had explained the sheer rocks that rose up higher than any man or giant, as high as the trees almost. Haem had laughed, and said, "Is that so? Then let us build our own cliff to lie beneath!" And he had ordered the manse's engineer to do just that.

Naem stepped around the candles that were always left out by the memoriam and rested his hand against the cold stone, chiseled so flat that he could not feel any irregularities. Inside would take you to stairs, and they led down into the earth, where all the bodies of the royal family were entombed. His wife, his son…but not his son anymore. He did not understand how the Ancestors had done this thing, but he knew it for the miracle it was.

"If it is the last thing I do, my dear Sareal, I will train Jaem, and he will be the most celebrated king Arstaem has ever seen, I swear it."

He trailed his fingers over rock, splayed them flat, and rested his head against the cold. _Sareal_…it had been so long since he had seen her; held her thick, dark curls in his hands, listened to her laugh. He had forgotten what she looked like, until John…_Jaem_.

Even as he had assessed him as dangerous, he had felt an arrow of pain shoot through his soul, because he had her hair, and her eyes and face.

When he had walked through his town, Naem had seen them react to John, and he had been angry because he had not understood what he had been given. "But I did see, finally, Sareal. I did understand the gift I have been given; if only you, too, had been returned, but greed is unbecoming of a king, is it not? So I will be content with our son, and when my winter has come, we will dance again together in the days of spring."

"Sire!"

Naem turned, dropping his hand. "What is it, Joros?"

"It is Jaem!" Joros jogged up and quickly knelt to Naem, and then stood. "Leal says his fever has broken and he is beginning to mend."

The guard's weathered face cracked into a smile. "Sire, the prince will make a full recovery."

"Thank you, Joros." Naem shared a look with the man that spoke volumes. For every loved one that Naem had lost, Joros had been there, and then when Jaem had returned to him as John, it had been Joros that had delivered the man, his prince, back into his care. It had been Joros who had seen Jaem back to the Stargate and returned saying John had left, and then he had told Naem of his return.

His departure for a second time, and arrival for a third time. It had been Joros who had silently accepted the plan to return the prince to Arstaem. Always Joros. "I will be there soon."

The guard nodded, spun and left him.

Naem waited till the man was out of sight, before he turned back to the monolith, both hands on the surface, his head bowed. Jaem would live. Again.

OoO

The Daedalus should've been here by now. The tentative date had passed, and she'd told herself they were merely delayed leaving Earth. Then two days, three and four, and she began to worry. When time had drained past a week, she'd sought out Radek and grilled him on possible scenarios.

She'd like to say that she'd left that meeting feeling better, but the truth was far from it.

Her office was a lonely place; gone were the people that had made it feel alive. Those that were left would knock, give her the requested information, and leave. No one came to talk, so sit in the chair and brief her on their mission and then stay to talk about the movie that played last night or the newest baby born on the mainland.

Elizabeth felt disconnected; lost.

"Ma'am – Colonel Caldwell is on the line."

Finally!

She was in the control room so fast she thought the tech might have had to run to keep up with her. "Colonel, we were getting worried."

"Sorry about that. I'm afraid I've got some bad news." Caldwell's voice broke away then came back, "We ran into a Hive ship when we dropped out of hyperspeed to correct a navigation error. Bad timing, we were able to get away after getting in a few good hits, but they got in a few, too. The hyperdrive suffered damage – Hermiod and Novak are working on it."

Her body tensed as she asked, "What's your ETA?"

More static, then, "We'd only broken the galactic barrier, we're looking at weeks – three or four, assuming no more Hive ships show."

Frowning at the 'gate, she nodded even though he couldn't see. "Understood, Colonel. But I'm afraid I also have bad news; we've had a situation here." Elizabeth explained about the trade agreement with the Arstaemians – he remembered them vaguely, then she explained Naem's cryptic final communication and their inability to determine if the gate was in fact blocked. She'd already lost one MALP. It was too dangerous to send anyone through.

"I see. Hermiod has informed me that he might be able to get us to Arstaem in six weeks if we by pass Atlantis."

As much as she wanted to go, considering the situation with the hyperdrive and the extra time it would take to detour to pick her up – "Go ahead, Colonel. And please, bring back good news."

"Understood, Doctor. Caldwell, out."

Finished, she left the control room, disappointed to the core. Of all the times for the Daedalus to suffer crippling damage, and after so much time had passed, was it even feasible to hope for the miracle she feared they'd need?

Instead of returning to her office, she steered herself into the transporter. The crew quarters were empty at this time of day; most people busy at work, and on missions. Lorne's team was due home tonight if all went well, and she prayed it did. One team and one doctor was enough for this year.

She stopped first at Teyla's room. Elizabeth had standing orders for them to be kept clean, but nothing was to be touched until the Daedalus gave the final report, and even though the timeline had significantly shifted in the wrong direction, she'd hold those orders as they were.

Teyla's clothes were neatly folded, an Athosian tea set, her fighting sticks – all just as Teyla had left it that morning.

Next, she stopped by Carson's room. The doctor's spare lab coat was still thrown on his unmade bed. She'd hesitated to have anyone do more than dust, but now she figured maybe, at the least, she would make his bed. The coat smelled of cologne and antiseptic, it smelled like Carson, and she was glad no one was here to see her bury her face, just for a minute, in the material. He wasn't dead; he wasn't on some Hive ship in a cocoon, she had to believe it.

Ronon's room, with almost nothing in it beside a couple of spare weapons, an artifact he'd gotten on the first trading mission he and Teyla had gone on alone, while Rodney and John had worked on the Arcturus weapon. The bed hadn't been made either, and a small smile twitched. Satisfied that all was as it should be, she left, and headed to Rodney's room.

His room was a mess, a disaster of clothes and blankets, computers and notebooks. It looked like a whirlwind had ran through, worse even than was usual for him, but then Elizabeth remembered the week leading up to the trip back to Arstaem. They'd been incredibly busy in the labs and McKay had to work in both worlds; Atlantis and missions through the 'gate. The demands on his time were incredible, and yet, he managed to do amazing work. She leaned down and picked up a discarded uniform jacket and draped it on the chair by the bed, wishing so badly for him to be alive that she ached physically.

She had saved John's for last. Of all five, he was the one she'd depended on the most. As the military leader, they had shared a lot of the decision making process, though Elizabeth was the final authority at the end of the day. John had maddeningly thwarted her a time or two, and they'd had their disagreements, but she had come to depend upon his advice and support. He would drop in her office to just say hey, how are you.

She'd asked him to come on the expedition for his ATA gene, and in the end, it was the last thing she thought about when she listed all the good he contributed to the city and the expedition's success.

When she left his room, she went to hers next. The last thing she had to do today, she needed to do in private. She was the leader, the one in charge, and she'd learned all to well if you let those you are supposed to command see weakness, they lose faith. But that didn't mean the weaknesses were gone.

It wasn't until the doors closed, that Elizabeth collapsed on her bed, and released the tears that had threatened hours earlier into her pillow. It was all overwhelming, and she had only so much strength to cling to. The disappointment she had felt when Caldwell had explained the delay; the hurt inside when she'd walked into each of their rooms and felt them, and wished she knew, either way – alive or dead, and then she realized that no, she didn't want to know if they were dead. Because sometimes hope was better than none at all.

OoO

The Daedalus wasn't coming.

A month and a half was gone; at least, Sheppard was pretty sure. The last two weeks weren't really solid in his mind. He remembered Naem finding his rudimentary calendar, remembered seizing the first chance he'd had to escape, and the run into the woods only to get attacked by that animal…a Lupere, Naem had told him.

"Jaem, you should lay down now."

John. My name is John Sheppard, Lieutenant Colonel, United States Air Force. Listlessly, he got up from the chair and the game Naem had started teaching him two days ago. They didn't want him leaving the room until a full week had passed from the time his fever had broken.

Naem held the covers aside for him. The bed was oversized, and Naem had never thought anything about them sleeping in the same bed. John had always curled away, against the wall. He didn't even care anymore. All he wanted was to see his team.

After he was settled, Naem smiled kindly and opened the book, starting off at the point where the king was preparing to protect his people from the wraith. A fairy tale book for kids, but Naem's smooth, whisky voice lulled him into a doze. The infection had almost killed him, and even walking left him tired, plus, the Lumival doses were back.

Naem was even more vigilant with the guards and even if he wasn't, John wasn't sure Joros would ever leave him unguarded again. The man treated John like a rare flower that had been brought in from the storm; always staring at him like he was surprised John was still alive, and then he'd seem to redouble his watchfulness. It was creepy.

The dreams started, always the same. He was on Atlantis, he was in a briefing with his team, in the Jumper, flying through space…

Morning arrived, Naem was already up, and he had John's breakfast ready.

Ascaria was going to start teaching him what he needed to know to rule the town, things like storing enough food for the long winters, and solving disputes between townsfolk. There were proprieties for receiving guests at the manse, for celebrating special holidays, and apparently, he had a moral obligation to marry and have heirs. Lots of heirs.

What John wanted to know though, was about this mysterious disease the claimed the royal line. Why had it always pruned the heirs down to one in every generation, and why did Naem, and his father before, and so on, never make the connection?

Naem fed him and for the first time he was barely aware of the process. As soon as breakfast was finished, John dressed in the clothes Naem picked for him, the black silks. With a promise to listen to Ascaria, John left with Joros.

"You don't have to shadow me."

The guard's hovering was getting on his nerves.

"Don't I?" Joros laughed. "I seem to remember rescuing a certain prince from the jaws of a Lupere."

John grunted, annoyed. If he wasn't being held prisoner by a mad man, he wouldn't have to make bad escape attempts that almost killed him.

Ascaria met them outside the library and greeted John with a hug that surprised him.

"Jaem, you scared us all."

"Yes, well, I think I scared myself." Sheppard had definitely done that. There'd been once when he'd woken, he was convinced they were going to amputate his arm, and the terror he'd felt when they'd drugged him back under…probably that was the most scared he'd been in a long, long time, if ever.

She gave him an odd look and for once it was everything except the cold distance he'd felt before. Without responding to his comment, she guided him to a table and on it were pictures upon pictures, from the look of them, oil based. "Art class?" he asked, confused.

"Portrait time, Prince," she replied with a smile. "Every member of the royal family must have an official picture painted. These are the different styles and poses. Pick which you prefer and tomorrow the artist will do his first sketch."

The ludicrousness of the situation got to him and John couldn't help it, but he laughed. Short of some kind of tragic devastation, the Daedalus would eventually arrive, and years from now, his picture would hang on a wall with a bunch of other long-gone people and they could point and say, "That was the dead prince."

He closed his eyes and pointed in front of him, then turned to the right and opened his eyes. "That one." He'd randomly picked out a side profile facing left. Whatever.

"Look, Ascaria, I was hoping to get some time to do some surfing on my own."

The old frown came back but she moved his still pointing hand to a full frontal profile and said, "That suits your face better." She pushed his hand down and picked the example of what she had chosen, and he wondered why she'd even bothered to pretend he had a choice. "I'll let you browse the books after you pass the government exam. You need to prove you understand the subtle structure of the Arstaem people. Who leads if the king becomes incapacitated?"

"Gaemal; the first advisor."

His answer seemed to please her so he supposed he wouldn't admit to guessing.

That was the rest of his afternoon; Ascaria presenting a long list of names, positions and what they were responsible for.

_**King: Naem Galarod**_

_**Prince (provisional): Jaem Galarod**_

_**First Advisor: Gaemal Balfor**_

_**Second Advisor: Kaleb Darra**_

_**Master of the Guard: Joros Caelan**_

_**Second Master of the Guard: Baela Arod**_

_**Master of Healing: Leal Gadara**_

_**Master of Aviary: Kareal Tormod**_

_**Master of Adjudicate: Nefen Daud**_

_**First Adjudicate: Tretaem Amal**_

_**Second Adjudicate: Adeal Seridus**_

_**Third Adjudicate: Thordia Borod**_

_**Agrarian Elder: Amear Darra**_

_**Agrarian Lesser: Kel Kinn**_

_**First Agrarian Speaker: Fenris Badaem**_

_**Second Agrarian Speaker: Syn Mael**_

_**Third Agrarian Speaker: Maed Borod**_

_**Mouth of the Ancestors: Wilael Seridus**_

_**Second Mouth of the Ancestors (service only capacity): Pepin Tormod**_

Great. He hadn't had to study since he'd passed his flight school exams, and now he had to memorize a list of positions and names that meant nothing to him. It wasn't hard, Sheppard had always had an ability to remember things he saw without a lot of work, but it was just one more stepping stone in front of him and keeping him from what he really wanted to do.

He took the vellum and pocketed it. "If I promise to know these by tomorrow, can I search the library before dinner?"

What was it about these people that made him feel like he was eight again? Ascaria was giving him that look he'd seen on almost every teacher he'd ever had in elementary school and more than a few in junior and senior high, too.

"Very well, Jaem, but His Majesty reminded me that you are still recovering, so no more than an hour, understood? Joros will take you back to your room." She bowed imperceptibly to both of them before leaving the library, the sample portrait in her hands.

Not sure where to start, Sheppard picked the right side and began looking at the titles. The library was set up alphabetically…Arstaemian alphabet, which meant he had to think a lot harder.

By the time his hour was up, he had earned a headache and eliminated one entire row of books. He stared at row after row that still stretched to the other side of the room; going at this rate, it'd be a lot of headaches. He wished he had someone to help, like McKay.

As Joros led him from the room, Sheppard had an idea who might be willing.

OoO

"Did you see him?"

Ronon threw the pumpkin at McKay. "I saw him."

Three expectant faces stared at him. He made a sour face and pulled one of his knives free from his wrist, and threw it, puncturing the vegetable in the thick rind. They had to stew it, and then Teyla was going to try a new recipe Leal had given her to make something that would be different than the same soup and porridge they ate every day.

"He was learning with that woman."

Turning to the peg, Ronon dumped his cloak on it to dry out. He'd been told by Teyla not to let it fall on the floor like last time. She didn't like it getting dirty, but what was the difference. He wore it when he worked so it always seemed to get dirty enough.

Carson took the knife from McKay's hand when the man almost cut a finger off, too clumsy from the continued Lumival doses, and turned to look at Ronon. "Did he see you?"

He snorted. Hardly. No one saw him that he didn't want to. "No, Doc, he was too busy picking out what kind of picture they'd paint of him."

"He's lost it, Carson!" declared McKay. "I told you something was going on up there; they've turned him against us."

"I do not think we should rush into assumptions, Rodney."

"Normally, I'd agree with you, Lass, but these are unusual circumstances." The top of the pumpkin was cut free, and Beckett set it aside and plucked a spoon from his bowl, licking it clean of the stew it'd rested in, before plunging it into the inside of the hole.

What was he doing?

Ronon was just about to ask when Beckett continued, muttering as he worked, "If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes – he's been walking about, enjoying an almost degree of worship from the folk around him, it's eerie, and I would be hard put to say it wouldn't go to my head in the same position."

Teyla wasn't exactly what Ronon considered even-tempered, and she didn't care for the direction the conversation had gone. She stood abruptly and glared at Doc and McKay. "Colonel Sheppard would not so easily forget us. I believe there is more going on that we cannot see, and if you are to narrow-minded to see that --"

"Narrow-minded," spluttered McKay. "Have you seen this forehead – think broad, very, very broad."

Ronon wondered what had Teyla so convinced tonight when he'd seen the doubt in her eyes before. Had she found something out? "If you know something, say it," Ronon growled. He didn't like being left in the dark about anything.

Her tone was cool as she said, "I know nothing more than the rest of you. I am merely saying that some should learn not to judge unless they know everything there is about a situation." She didn't wait for anyone to respond, instead, she stormed off to her bedroom, and Ronon gathered that they all felt like a storm had just rolled over them. Teyla had the ability to do that when she got pissed.


	5. Chapter 5

Teyla had suspected something was not right with John, and the last time she had seen him, the feeling had solidified into something she could no longer ignore. With only one source she felt she could go to for an answer, Teyla went to Leal. She had told Ronon the truth when she had said she knew no more than they, but her suspicions apparently went in different directions than their own.

Leal was someone Teyla was becoming to regard as a friend, and she was fairly certain, the healer felt the same. After Teyla had spoken her innocence to the healer, she had made created an opening in the woman's mind. The days she had spent recovering, Teyla had explained the true events of that night from her memory. How they had returned to the bungalow and settled down for bed; how Colonel Sheppard had been on first watch. She had explained their waking later, knowing they had been drugged.

Leal had listened, stonily at first, with more interest as Teyla argued for the healer to consider the situation and ask herself why Doctor Weir would order them to stage such an attack, what was the gain in destroying people that grew the food they had needed?

In order for Leal to confide in her, Teyla had been required to promise, to swear on her honor that she would not tell the rest of her team, about the truth behind John's isolation. Leal had understood, that to Teyla, her word meant a great deal. Her fears being that if the others knew, they would act rashly, and put her people at risk.

After Teyla had given her word, Leal had confessed that the king had named John as not only his heir, but his son reborn to him by a gift from the Ancestors. Some of the things she described shocked Teyla to her core, but she could tell from the simple way Leal related the events, it was normal on Arstaem, this process of raising a prince to assume the crown.

What bothered her deeply was that Leal talked about John as if he were Jaem. That she wanted John to be their prince as much as it would seem the king did.

When Leal had disappeared for two weeks, Teyla had grown concerned that Naem had found out they had been sharing two sides of the truth, but then last night, Leal had returned.

She had explained that Colonel Sheppard had almost died while they sat in her room, talking in confidence, and all the while his other teammates sat in the main room discussing him as if he were becoming a conceited arrogant pawn of Naem's.

And her oath obligated her to sit by and let it happen.

This was…intolerable.

Truthfully, Teyla did not know how much longer she could keep her promise to Leal. Rodney, Carson and Ronon needed to know the truth, and John deserved for them to be told.

OoO

John's world narrowed to lessons with Ascaria, Naem's feedings, and the books in the library. Sheppard asked about his team once a day, and usually someone was able to give him an update. Then he'd let himself search titles and references for anything to do with the disease.

The few references he did find made him even more convinced that something was seriously wrong. In all the recorded deaths, there wasn't a definable pattern, such as the disease striking only certain ages, or times of the year, and with that many, there should've been something. John was trying to find anything that might prove to be a potential lead for what made the royal line susceptible, and apparently only the royal line.

Instead, it almost looked like the disease was a winnowing away of heirs and potential kings and queens. Some times it killed the oldest and left the youngest, while other times it did the opposite. There had been cases where it had killed only female children and left one male heir, then there were times when it'd killed all the male children and left one female heir.

Sheppard wasn't Carson, but he wasn't stupid, either. Diseases weren't known for being picky.

And that reminded him of what he needed to do next – get this information to Beckett and see what he could make out of it.

The problem was, Naem was being obsessive. He'd been slightly unstable before, but John's encounter with the Lupere had made the king lose any defining line between John Sheppard and Jaem, his son.

He told John that the Lumival slowed his reactions, and he could be hurt if he was outside in the snow and something happened. Naem ordered Joros to let Sheppard only move freely within the manse.

If anyone had been telling the king that all John did was search through dusty books, Naem hadn't mentioned it.

"Prince Jaem?"

John turned, surprised at how easily he'd grown used to being called by a different name. Maybe because it wasn't so far off from John. "Do I know you?"

"His Majesty has asked me to serve you dinner tonight."

The man pointed at the library doors, as if to have John follow him. Not really sure what was going on, Sheppard looked over at Joros. The guard stood impassively, waiting, and didn't show an overt reaction or alarm, so Sheppard figured whoever this was, they were okay.

He followed the servant to a table in the main dining hall. The room was massive, instead of a glass dome, there were timbers rising obliquely to a central point. All he could see above the thick, round logs was grass, but Sheppard figured there was more to the roof than just that. Maybe the grass served as insulation, because the room felt warmer than the others. They probably wanted the food to stay hot as long as possible during meals.

He wondered if this was the room where the supposed crowning feast was going to be held. The celebration in question was only a couple of weeks away, and still the Daedalus hadn't arrived. It would mark their second month here, or maybe a little more. Sheppard had lost time recovering from the wound to his arm and he'd woken to find his calendar gone, the stone polished smooth where his careful scratches had been.

A lone plate was waiting in front of a chair at the far end of the table.

There'd been a time when Sheppard wouldn't have hesitated, but one routine that had never changed was Naem's feeding him. He hated it, and was thankful they ate only two meals a day on this world. John could accept a lot of things, but being fed wasn't one of them, and every morning and every night he had to battle the disgust he felt with every bite he had to take.

He never had given in and opened his eyes during the process. It was the only defiance Naem had allowed him to get by with. And yet, now he'd supposedly told the servant to have him eat, down here, alone.

Just him and the damn spoon, and no king telling him to open. Had he passed some milestone he didn't know about?

Sheppard would never have predicted he'd allow himself to be kept in this situation, but two weeks hanging by his wrists changed his mind about a lot of things; two weeks without any food. Two weeks of agony that Sheppard was pretty sure he'd never forget. If Naem was really going to let him eat like a normal person again, then John should probably take it for the relief that it was, before Naem changed his mind.

The meal was delicious. Meat that he knew the falcons Naem was so proud of had killed, one of those little rabbit like animals. Vegetables and something that tasted exactly like pumpkin pie. He finished it, and drank the glass of wine, feeling an amazing sense of freedom for the first time in a long time. He only wished he'd had company – his team, for one. It was pretty damn lonely here and Joros standing over him like he always did wasn't the same as having Rodney bitch at him about the native menu, and asking if there was citrus in the dishes every five minutes.

John had dragged the mea out longer than necessary, but he did finally, reluctantly, stand. Joros held the wooden door open and Sheppard headed for the corridor. He wasn't sure where Naem had been all this time, but it'd be a good bet he'd seem him soon. Naem was trying to teach him their version of a chess game. It wasn't hard for Sheppard, with his mind for numbers, and Naem liked the fact that John had already managed to beat him once.

It wasn't until Joros had led him past the door that led into the chambers he shared with Naem that John realized something was definitely off. "We just…passed my room?"

He stopped and waited. Was he going to get his own room now? Because if he was, then things were definitely taking a turn for the better.

"Tonight you have a special room, Prince."

The edge in Joro's voice made Sheppard's positive thought begin to drain away. Tonight. Joros had said tonight, which meant it wasn't likely to be a permanent changed, and what was going on that he got to feed himself and now got a _special room_. Sheppard was really starting to worry.

"What kind of special room?"

The eyes that turned and locked onto his were full of regret. "You should not have eaten the meal."

"What are you talking about?"

His feet were frozen to the corridor floor.

Instead of explaining, Joros walked ahead, pushed open a door and gestured for Sheppard to go in. The Lumival kept him from being able to fight Joros (and win), and they both knew it. Frustrated, Sheppard walked past the guard and into the room. It was bare except for a toilet and a pile of blankets on the floor along with some towels and water. What the hell was this?

Joros didn't say more, he pulled the door shut, leaving Sheppard alone.

He didn't know what was going on, and while this wasn't exactly luxury, it was private. No Naem, or guards, just a room to himself. If this was some kind of a trick, there wasn't much he could do about it.

Tired, John went ahead and arranged the blankets into a make-shift bed with a pillow. He laid down and thought about his team. Thought about Elizabeth. His favorite Jumper, and that made him chuckle a little.

When the first cramp hit, he was surprised. The next one made him swear out loud. It was then that the door opened and Naem stood, silhouetted by the torchlight in the hallway. "I see it's begun."

Four small words from Naem, but they cut into John like a knife, in tune to another gut wrenching cramp. "What'd you do to me?" he gasped around the pain.

Naem stepped in, but Joros left the door open, which told Sheppard that the king wasn't staying long. He knelt, and touched John on his forehead, as if feeling for a fever, before he told John to lie on his back. Sheppard almost argued, but the thought of being put on the beam while he was in this shape kept him from saying something he'd regret. He rolled over and Naem pushed gently on his belly, causing a fresh wave of pain. Satisfied by what he saw, the king sat back, away from John.

"Every stage of training ends in a test. With Ascaria, your exams are written. With me, they are practical. I told you never to eat food by any other hand than mine."

Through the fire that was in his stomach, Sheppard grated, "The servant said you'd given him the order. Why would I believe he lied?"

"Did you seek me to ask?"

Of course he hadn't.

Because the chance to feed himself had been too tempting, and Sheppard hadn't wanted to risk finding out it was too good to be true. His silence was damning in Naem's eyes.

"Exactly, Jaem."

The king stood. "Obedience is the hardest lesson to learn; for young princes and apparently for the old, as well. In the wine was a drug that causes your body to reject food and drink. You will spend a very miserable night, and maybe morning depending on your body, and I hope you will think twice before accepting something at face value in the future. You could have saved yourself the discomfort of this night if you had merely had the willingness to obey."

John didn't protest again. He realized he'd made a critical error. He'd begun to believe that Naem had lost himself in his fantasy about John being Jaem, and that he wasn't going to hurt him again because of it. Had believed it especially after he'd recovered from the Lupere attack, but now was definitely proving Sheppard's assumptions were way off base.

With another powerful cramp, John had just enough time to get to the toilet before he started throwing up.

OoO

Naem spent the night at his desk, reviewing reports, and staring at the flame from his tallow candle. He was too disturbed to even bother with attempting sleep, and truthfully, without Jaem sleeping near, he knew he would not be able to rest.

Seeing how Jaem was spending a very hard night in the room above, Naem considered it only fair that he suffer through the long hours, at least awake in sympathy. It did not have to be this way, but he was not surprised or upset. Every lesson needed to be learned, and every behavior had a consequence. No, he was certain Jaem was learning well enough, better even then he had expected.

A set-back from time to time was not the end of the world.

The purging was not dangerous, but it was very uncomfortable. Every prince in his year before assuming the crown had to learn to take food only from his king. Since Jaem had only recently been returned to him, Naem was going to shorten the time required, but his son would have to understand there would be no feeding himself until he was crowned as prince. Depending on how much training Naem believed Jaem needed after mid-winter, it might have to continue. Being crowned did not mean Jaem assumed the throne; it was a promise, for when the king passed to the Ancestors, that there would be no time from Naem's death to Jaem's ascension to the throne.

The winter had been mild, reports from Kaleb were promising about next year's harvest. Gaemal had reported that two infants had been born and a record eight were confirmed for a summer arrival. Naem knew it was likely at least one or two of those would not make it, but still, it was a good number. Jaem was only part of the solution – if his people were to prosper again, they would need to grow and have as many children as a family could support and nuture.

The children in the manse were being trained, taught and would assume posts as servants. Their needs taken care of, and if they wanted to have a family, they would be allowed to. Many of his servants did, and many of them lived in the north wing. He and Jaem stayed in the south, away from the noise and possible influence. Jaem did not need to be around so many children still learning how to behave.

"Sire?"

Baela stood at his door.

Loyal Baela – he had been with Naem as long as Joros, since he had been only a boy. The man's hair was as white as the snow outside, but he still carried himself with the strength of a man who could fight and kill with ease. Unlike Joros, he did not wear a beard, saying that they should be balanced. Joros wore a beard but had no hair on his head, having lost most in the autumn of his years, and Baela's thick hair had turned from gold to white, and kept his jaw clean shaven.

"Jaem is through the worst."

Naem waved an understanding hand. "I will be there soon, see him transferred to my private room."

Baela inclined his head stiffly, and left.

Time – it was running out on Naem. Just yesterday morning, he had felt the first stirrings of the disease. When he had given Jaem his Lumival, his arm had trembled. Naem had known he would not escape it, every member of the royal family died from the disease except those taken for natural deaths of childbirth and accidents…but some lived long productive years of ruling before it claimed them. Naem had been one of those; his father had died from the disease younger than Naem was now, and he had assumed the throne at only ten and six of his years.

He stood and shuffled the papers into a pile, leaned across his desk, and blowing out the candle, left his office.

OoO

When Sheppard was twenty, he'd gotten food poisoning. A cook in the chow hall had been lazy and left one of the batches of potato salad out overnight then served it the next day for lunch.

The pain in his stomach had been the first symptom he'd gotten just hours after eating. He'd been doing touch and go's, and it'd been all he could do to get his plane down with both of them in one piece. The flight surgeon had been notified while he was landing, and was waiting off the flight line with an ambulance. They'd carted him off thinking his appendix was the problem.

He'd started throwing up en route to the base hospital, where an exam ruled out appendicitis. He got to have another ride downtown to the local hospital in Lancaster and spent the next twenty-four hours hooked to an IV, throwing up, doubled over in pain, and wishing he'd just die and get it over with.

By the time he'd recovered, he'd never wanted to eat potato salad again.

It was kind of like that, all over again. John wasn't even sure he'd ever eat again after last night. He'd thrown up so much he felt hung-over, shaky and his throat hurt as much as his stomach. When Joros and Baela helped him to Naem's room afterwards, he had to be carried more than walked.

He didn't care about the Lumival dose, he didn't care about Naem, hell, right now, he didn't care about anything other than curling up and sleeping.

While he was doing just that, Naem must've arrived, because when John woke up, the king was sitting by his side again, frowning. When he saw John's eyes crack, the frown turned to relief. "I was about to send for Leal; you've slept most of the day."

Yeah, well, being fed poison will cause that.

Naem waited for him to say something but John wasn't really up to it, and if he said what he was thinking, it'd probably earn him some more trouble. Finally, Naem got up and came back with a glass of something, it wasn't clear like water, but red, like the wine he'd drank and John automatically pulled away from it.

"It's to help your stomach heal, Jaem."

He settled on the bed and pulled John up against his chest. Sheppard wanted to fight it, but last night had left him weaker than a baby, and he let Naem bring the glass to his lips, and swallowed when it was poured into his mouth.

The taste was bland, almost chalky. When he'd swallowed enough, Naem set the glass on the chair and ran soothing hands through Sheppard's hair. "I am sorry for your pain, Son, but lessons learned easy do not linger as long as they should."

How long he slept after that, he wasn't sure, but when he woke, Naem was gone. Joros was there and told him to get dressed. It wasn't until he was done washing and dressing and feeling almost human, that Naem was back, bearing a tray with breakfast, that Sheppard realized he'd lost another day.

He wanted to eat fast, to get the feeding part done with as soon as he could, but today his stomach was too touchy, and John had to take a bite at a time and wait. Naem had another glass of the chalky drink and gave it to him, then his Lumival.

All drugged up and fed, he wanted to say when it was over, but instead he just felt like his world was falling apart even more in front of him, the pieces slowly being replaced by this mockery of a life. Sheppard was beginning to fear for his own sanity if this continued for another month. Was it even possible for an adult to adapt to such a radical change? This wasn't something inconsequential – this, all of it, was an entire way of life that went against everything Sheppard was.

Maybe Naem sensed he was falling today, into some deep pits of despair, because when breakfast was finished he told Joros they would be going into town today. Sheppard was going to get to see his team.

But what surprised him, was how much he really didn't want to.

OoO

Ascaria made him fight through lessons; they were harder now, more open-ended with John having to think through scenarios of disputes and address essay responses to 'what if' possibilities. What if the wraith arrived tomorrow, what would you do to protect your people – what if neighbor A claims neighbor B stole his bird, but neighbor B says it was his to begin with, how could you find the truth when both claim they are right?

When she finally released him, John went back to looking for a book on the disease. Sheppard had thought she could help him find what he was looking for, but when he'd explained he was trying to find any book that talked about the royal disease, she had asked him why he would want to do that?

She'd explained that their finest healers had failed to discover anything, and there wasn't likely to be any books on the subject in the library. Then she'd suggested that rather than waste his time on such wasteful pursuits, he should be studying.

So, his one possible accomplice eliminated, Sheppard had kept searching. He wanted to have something to slip to Beckett when he saw him next. If anything, the search gave him something to distract himself with, and without that, Sheppard wasn't sure he'd be able to hold onto who he was anymore. He had nothing left of who he'd been to remind him.

Was it two months, now? Or had it been longer?

The only thing he was sure of, was that the Daedalus should've been here by now, and it wasn't, which meant something had happened.

Scrolling down a row, John's hand paused as he read the title.

**_Ailments of the Royal Family: a hypothesis on cause by Siroun Gadara_**

Feeling tightness in his chest, Sheppard pulled the book from the shelf, and opened it, while blowing off the dust. The first page included a date, and while he was kind of vague on what it meant, he got the feeling that this was written a long time ago. The vellum was brittle enough that he had to handle it carefully.

Taking the book to a table, Sheppard sat and began to read.

**_When I was twenty and one, my teacher, Master Healer Somael Borod, brought me to help attend to the Princess Magda. The disease had struck her in her ten and fifteenth year, the same as it had with her younger sister a year before; the palsy began first, then the altered vision. Within two weeks, Magda was almost bereft of sight, and the trembling was severe enough that we found only a new drug would give her respite from the tremors and resulting muscle fatigue._**

**_Master Somael named the drug Lumival, based in part upon the plant it is produced from, the Luman, a pretty violet flower that grows wild in the forests of summer._**

**_I spent many days caring for the princess, and watching her decline, yet all our efforts were to no avail. After a month from the onset of her first signs of the disease, Princess Magda was born away to live with the Ancestors._**

**_It was after that experience that my master began to teach me at length about the disease that plagued the royal line. It is a puzzle that no healer has so far been able to decrypt. It strikes at random, and always winnows the heirs to one, sometimes within months, other times, it is a slow process of elimination over years._**

**_There are records of royal couples bearing only one child in fear of losing subsequent children to the disease, but that, too, proved to be ineffective and did not protect the only child. In half of the instances, the child passed on from the disease, and the royal family rushed to produce another heir._**

**_I spent the next ten years studying at length every account my master had on the disease and its odd pattern of affliction, only to find a frustrating pattern of having none._**

**_Further, it would appear that past attempts were hidden, and destroyed. A search of the library revealed missing volumes in historical accounts. I was discouraged from questioning the absence by the First Advisor, and while I ceased my public interest, I have continued on in quiet._**

**_In my thirty and fourth year, Prince Obaem assumed the throne after his mother passed from the disease._**

**_I cared for her as I had the others before her, but the disease took Queen Idaen to the Ancestors sooner than it had taken her daughters, and she breathed her last breath smiling and calling out to her dead children. I have often believed it was her sorrow that allowed the disease a faster claim._**

**_Our new King was a strong man, a far greater ruler than even his mother had been. He allowed me unfettered access to the past accounts, but as is our tradition, her body was burned upon the pyre at sunset and I was left with no physical account of the disease._**

**_I truly believe that Obaem wished to find answers, but there were none to be found._**

**_In light of the disturbing lack of information, I have begun to keep this journal, so that in the years to come, perhaps some healer like myself, will read this account and prove more intelligent and quick-witted than I have been._**

**_I fear that without that evidence, I shall die myself never knowing what the cause is, and therefore, this plague will continued to murder the royal line at whim until the end of Arstaem's days._**

"Prince Jaem, His Majesty is waiting to leave."

Sheppard looked up from the book, surprised to find he'd lost track of time and where he was. Joros was watching him carefully and Sheppard nodded, closing it. "Let me put this back," he said, lifting the old volume up for only a moment, before dropping it out of sight.

The guard nodded abruptly, and turned to the door, murmuring to the other guard, Baela.

John headed to the shelf where he'd found the book, doing a quick cursory glance at the other titles. He turned his shoulder to Joros and pulled a book in brown aged leather, similar to the one he'd found, and tucked the copy by Gadara into his waistband, pulling his tunic smoothly over the slight bulge. No one would see it if they didn't expect to, then turning into clear view, he pushed the other volume back in place, and smiled at Joros. Now at least he had something to give Carson.

The walk wasn't bad; he was handed his cloak by Baela, and they walked into the bright sunshine of mid-day. The snow glittered brightly in the daylight, and the path to town was already hard packed by the carts that had been running back and forth from the town to the manse.

When they arrived, Naem escorted him to the bungalow, but he got a sinking feeling in his stomach when he didn't see Carson anywhere. Teyla was sewing in a chair by the fire while Ronon polished steel.

Awkwardly, he greeted them, feeling rusty from being around anyone other than Naem, his guards and Ascaria. "Hi, guys. You look good." What he meant was that they didn't appear to be being mistreated.

Ronon shrugged and kept polishing, which made John frown and feel even more out of place. Teyla's smile was at least kind, if not worried, and Sheppard felt a surge of cold in his stomach. It looked like she knew, and he almost preferred the offishness from Ronon. "Where's McKay and Beckett?"

"Rodney is helping Kaleb with this idea he had; a conveyor belt?" she arched an eyebrow at him, unsure if it were the right word. When he nodded, she continued, "And Carson is helping Leal deliver a baby."

"Jaem, I have business to attend to, we cannot stay."

Sheppard knew enough not to embarrass himself by asking to stay while Naem did whatever he had to do, so instead, he headed across the room quickly, knowing this was the only chanced he'd have for a while. He faked tripping, and literally fell into Teyla, both of them falling to the ground. With his back to Naem, he slipped the book free and shoved it up her skirt, trying to make it look like he was smoothing it back down, and apologized roughly, "God, I'm sorry. It's that stuff, makes me clumsy." True enough, 'cause it did.

Hopefully the title of the book and its contents would be self-explanatory.

Her brown eyes narrowed shrewdly and she quickly covered for him. "I understand, John."

"Jaem," Joros corrected. "His name is Prince Jaem, do not forget."

Teyla's face darkened, but she nodded slowly. "Jaem," she agreed softly.

Baela had reached John already and hauled him to his feet, his eyes raking over Sheppard before he seemed satisfied, and helped him back towards Naem. Ronon was watching him with concealed curiosity, and shot a surreptitious look at Teyla before looking back to Sheppard.

"I'll tell McKay you said hi," he offered gruffly.

John waved half-heartedly as he was hauled out the door. "Thanks, big guy." Then he was through the door and away from them, feeling both relieved and upset.

OoO

"What'd he give you?"

Ronon stopped polishing and looked over at Teyla.

"A book."

She pulled it from where he'd hidden it underneath the skirt she'd taken to wearing when her work kept her inside. Her uniform was not going to last if she wore it every day, and they had no idea of when the Daedalus would finally arrive.

The letters made no sense to her, but she knew Colonel Sheppard had been taught to read their language. What had he hoped to accomplish by giving them a book that none of them could read?

"A book," Ronon grumbled. "He brought us a book we can't read." The Satedan shook his head angrily, and went back to polishing.

Teyla set the volume on the table, and stared down into Ronon's line of sight. "What do you expect him to do, Ronon? He is as much a prisoner as we are."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't look like it from here."

He attacked the steel with the cloth in his hand and a determination to convey to her that as far as he was concerned, they were done talking about it. Apparently he had forgotten Teyla's bravery in the face of adversity. She never did hold back from telling what she thought or felt.

"Then you are as blind as Rodney," she said coldly, holding his gaze. "Something I did not think was possible." She grabbed her cloak from the wall and stormed out the door, leaving Ronon behind.

He stared at the door, then the book, then the polishing rag in his hand and swore. Maybe she was right. He was going along with everything he was told, and he could blame the drug that made his body uncoordinated and weak, he could blame Sheppard for being in a big house with people waiting on him, but the truth was somewhere in between, it always was. He wanted to blame everyone else because he hated to admit he was as much at fault as any of them. Standing abruptly, he threw the rag to the table, and headed out after her.

OoO

Naem's walk through the town was enjoyable, even though the cold was making his limbs ache. He saw smiling faces despite the food rationing, everyone enthused for the crowning ceremony next week.

A small boy ran to him and jumped on his arm, the mother right behind, flushed with embarrassment, but Naem grinned at the boy and lifted him high, throwing him like his father had done to him at that age, and catching him. The child giggled and hugged Naem tightly before saying, "Momma says Prince Jaem is going to save us all from the wraith!"

He ruffled the boy's hair and dropped him to the ground, his arm almost giving out first.

"He will."

Behind him, Jaem had looked uncertain, but had distracted himself looking at his companions working off to the side.

Always his companions, Naem allowed the bitter thought to chase away some of his good mood. Maybe after the crowning, if Jaem accepted the next level of training with grace, he would allow them to live in the manse. Naem knew his days were counting down now; his own autumn had arrived, and in Jaem's winter, he would need his friends to keep him strong, much like Naem had needed Zarye and Aarye.

With one part of his mind on greeting his people, Naem walked through the rest of the town, while the other part lingered on the disease. He had seen Leal that morning and she had confirmed that he had one, maybe two months. The disease stole women away faster than the men.

That gave him one month, in which he would need to crown Jaem, and have his son declare for a princess. He did not want to go to the Ancestors without knowing the royal line would persevere.

Before they left, Naem stopped at the home of the Widow Gadara. Her family had served his family faithfully for generations back, starting with Siroun, a healer that had tried to find a cure for the terrible plague.

Her life's dedication had not gone unrewarded, and ever after, a pact with the family had existed between the royal family and hers. Now, Sebouh was on her death bed, one of the few of his people that had lived into old age.

It was the pact that had kept her alive. Whenever a culling began, the members of the Gadara family were granted the privilege of escaping to the manse and to the safety of the underground chambers. Not all made it, though, because the road to the manse from the town was, while short, still open.

He ordered Joros to keep Jaem outside, and ducked into the darkened home. The bedroom was across the room and acknowledging the deep curtsey from the healer on duty, Naem went to her.

"Sebouh, it is Naem, your king," he greeted, speaking softly.

The wizened, aged face turned towards his voice; her milky white eyes long ago having lost the ability to see.

"Sire." Her voice crackled like parchment. "So you have come to see an old woman on her final journey."

He smiled, even though she could not see it, and sat on the bed beside her. "I have. What would you ask of me before you go?"

A wrinkled, thin hand reached for him, and she smiled weakly. "Merely your blessing to leave." The smile fell away, replaced by regret. "My watch has ended and I failed to solve the puzzle entrusted to me by my mother, and my grandmother before her, and many generations ago."

A painful cough wracked her thin, frail body, and Naem held her to him, trying to ease her pain. "Your King absolves you from your duty," he murmured gently.

The smile returned, blissful. She was old, older than anyone Naem had ever known, her voice, aged and tired. He did not like to see her die, for all that she had spent her life searching for the cure that might save him when his time came. He did not have the heart to tell her he would follow her soon into the woods.

Her wrinkled and spotted hand reached for his face, brushed away the tear. "Thank you," she whispered, before closing her eyes.

Naem softly laid her to rest, wiping away the silly betrayal of his own training. Sebouh had been there when his mother gave him life, she had been there when Sareal had died, training Leal. For the deaths of his brother, and sisters. She was the last of a life he had known before he had suffered the loss of everyone he had ever been allowed to love – except for Jaem.

Jaem was back where he belonged, by Naem's side, and in two months, Jaem would close Naem's eyes, and send him to his pyre.

Leaving the room, Naem told the healer Sebouh was gone. He stepped into the sunshine that seemed dimmed now by the pall of her death. Jaem did not even seem to realize the cost of today, and it incited an anger that Naem both recognized as part of the disease, but also, his frustration. The prince had come far, but it was times like now where Naem worried he would not go far enough before the disease claimed him.

The walk to the manse was long, and when Naem and Jaem went up to his chambers for dinner, all he wanted was to feed Jaem and sleep.

It was poor timing that Jaem was out of sorts and cranky, and asked irritably if he was ever going to be able to feed himself again. Normally, the comment would have earned Jaem a reminder of who he was and what was required of him. That the training would end only if and when Naem believed Jaem capable of ruling. But tonight Jaem's slight defiance – in his closed eyes at meal time, the cutting comments that Naem should not have let pass before – all of it served to ignite his fury.

"Joros, the restraints," Naem ordered severely.

His time was running like the fast days of autumn and Jaem must learn. He must, or Arstaem would suffer for Naem's inability to train his son.

He saw the look on Jaem's face. The brief flash of alarm, even fear, but the boy schooled himself well and it was gone in an instant. If he had been looking anywhere else, he would have missed it.

Joros and Baela did their duty, then Naem sent them to their rooms for the night. There would be no need for them with Jaem restrained. Withdrawing the whip, Naem turned to Jaem. "I have tried to be patient and understanding, Jaem, but time is not infinite, nor is my patience."

"Look, I'm…not sorry…"

Jaem had begun as if he were going to apologize and then Naem saw the same defiant look steal across his face. Naem froze and waited.

"In fact, fine, you want to hurt me, go ahead. I'm sick of this game you're playing with me. I'm not Jaem, I'm John. Colonel John Sheppard. I came to your planet to broker a trade alliance and you wrongly drugged me, accused my people and coerced a false confession, and have made me into something I'm not. I've been humiliated, tortured and nothing I do is enough. Your Majesty, _this_ is what you got when you decided to make me your son – I'm not from your world, we don't do this to our people where I come from, and you can torture me into submission for a while, because every man has limits, but you can't take away who I am. So if you want to beat me, go ahead, you want to make me suffer and cry out for it to stop, go ahead, but never forget inside, I'm still John Sheppard."

Naem's fury spilled over. He never had spoken to his father like Jaem was doing now. He would never have dared to be this defiant in the face of his training. He had been sorely indulgent with Jaem, and it was his fault the boy stood before him, angry and fighting against what was inevitable.

Walking to stand behind Jaem, he brought the whip up, and down, with the strength needed to cut into Jaem's back only enough to draw blood. The first trails of blood snaked down and pooled against the white cloth of his underwear. Once, twice, three and four whips, and Jaem did not cry out. On the fifth, he did, and again on the sixth, seventh and eighth. Naem was using all his restraint and he knew the cuts were shallow enough to hurt but not cause unnecessary damage. He would call for Leal to come and treat Jaems back to prevent scars.

On the thirteenth strike, Jaem's head lulled forward, his body boneless. Naem was not finished. He strode to the cabinet and poured a glass of wine, stepping in front of Jaem and splashing it on his face, watching with satisfaction as his eyes flickered open, and he groaned.

"Not done yet?" he grated.

Naem was both impressed by his son's strength of mind, but saddened. His anger was leaving him now, as he looked at the sagging head, the blood dripping to the floor from his torn back. And yet, Jaem defied him.

"Apparently not."

He hoped the dry response would help Jaem realize the lashes to come were bought with his sarcasm. Naem made it to twenty-three before Jaem lost consciousness again, and this time, he decided to let his son rest. The cuts were not so deep that he would loose a dangerous amount of blood, and perhaps the weakness from it would serve as a reminder for the next few days, along with the pain that healing would bring.

Naem could not afford to be gentle any longer.

OoO

Sheppard thought it was kind of ironic that he'd always complained that McKay had a big mouth, when apparently, so did he – it had just taken the right set of circumstances for him to find out how big. Monumentally, and maybe with even worse timing than Rodney had ever had.

He coughed, and shifted in the restraints, the pain almost driving him back under. _God_, he hurt, and he couldn't imagine what Teyla had felt like. Sheppard could add one more experience to his list of things he'd rather not repeat; being flogged. Naem had woken him in the morning with water, first in the face, then ordering him sternly to drink, he'd raised the cup to John's lips and with a coldness John hadn't felt since their first meeting, Naem had added, "Keep your eyes open or you will earn five more lashes – and believe me, on your injured back, it will hurt unimaginably."

Sheppard wasn't sure about that, he'd always had a good imagination.

No Lumival, and at some point, Leal arrived and treated his back while he kept hanging. He tried not to dwell on the thought that he might be in for another marathon on the beam, and Sheppard definitely told himself that the shaking in his knees was from the pain caused by Leal washing his torn skin, and not fear.

It was just pain. He'd had a lot of it lately and he hadn't died yet.

By that evening, he was swearing out loud.

Naem made him drink water then had Joros and Baela take him to use the bathroom, before he was returned to the beam.

"I will expect every comment that comes from you to be polite and civil, do you understand Jaem?"

"Fuck off."

Sheppard couldn't help it. He was screwed anyway, and he'd had it, completely. John had thought Naem had broken him before, but he hadn't, not really, set him back a few pegs, definitely. Thrown him mentally and physically. The two week torment from before, the lack of food, and everything Sheppard had done after was to survive till the Daedalus arrived to rescue them, but Caldwell wasn't anywhere in sight, and Sheppard was sick of it. He was fed up with being fed by Naem, being called some dead kid's name. His team thought he was living it up, and maybe that was the final straw that had given John the edge to just not care.

He was already hurt, already hanging, and since Naem was already going to make him pay, why not go for the hat trick?

Naem's face grew even colder than before. "I do not understand where this depth of defiance has come from, Jaem, but it will not be allowed to live."

Instead of the whip, Naem returned with two Bracelets of Rememberance, the tool he'd used earlier when he'd probably thought Sheppard was going to be an easy victim, and a small vial of liquid. Knowing John was watching, he liberally rubbed the liquid over the spikes. "This is Kalahi lotion, made from the poisonous trout in the river, extracted and diluted. It is rarely used in training because the pain it causes can be excruciating." He attached them tightly to John's thighs, one on each leg, so that the metal tips bit into his skin. Thin rivulets of blood ran down his bare skin. "I have personally never felt or endured its effect, but you have left me with little choice."

Damn it. He really needed to learn to shut up, and now would be a good time.

"I have had to postpone the crowning ceremony. I am not pleased, Jaem. Tomorrow morning I will see if you are more amenable to reason."

Yeah, well, John wasn't pleased, either.

That night was the longest he would ever remember. His back burned, and ached, and every movement tugged the cuts created by the lashes. His shoulders and wrists ached to the point of burning, and then they would grow numb before it all started again, worse than the first time through. His knees were heavy and felt swollen from the awkward position. And his thighs – they were a constant, unrelenting source of pain, sharp and hot, and always like little pokers of fire sticking into his skin. Whatever Naem had put on the metal spikes, it was meant to make that pain last.

Somewhere shortly before Naem woke, Sheppard knew he wouldn't last another day. He wouldn't last for a week or two weeks. He'd better hope his earlier smart ass comments were worth it because they were the last he'd be saying for a while.

When Naem stepped to him with a fresh cup of water and eyes full of regret over the mess that John had become during the night, and asked, "Will you agree to be respectful, to eat from my hand with your eyes open, to do as you are told and stop defying me with words and thoughts?"

John rasped, "Yes."

Right then, he would've done anything to end the pain.


	6. Chapter 6

After John left, Teyla sought Leal and Carson.

She found them just as a new Arstaemian was born, both doctor and healer beaming from the elation. They let Teyla hold the newborn, and for that brief moment, she forgot all they had suffered. It almost felt as if they were being welcomed again among the people.

She was not sure if the healer had been sharing Teyla's claims of their innocence, but it did seem as if there was a noticeable change, though who they were blaming for the destruction that night, she did not know. Maybe they had decided to let such troubling questions stay in the past, either way, the relief was palpable for her, to not see the angry accusations whenever eyes looked upon her. To be able to hold this woman's new baby, and laugh over the faces the child made; the demanding cries.

The book forgotten, Teyla spent the afternoon enjoying the baby and conversation. When they left, stepping out into the freezing night air, they walked to the bungalow, all in high spirits. Until she came through the door and saw Ronon's annoyed face and Rodney poring over the book; it came rushing back on a wave of guilt. _John_.

Rodney looked up, something indefinable on his face and snapped, "What did Sheppard say when he gave you this?"

Teyla glared at Ronon, and he shrugged. "I told him but he wouldn't believe me."

Sighing, Teyla took the book from him and gave it to Leal. "Could you help us read this?" She ignored Rodney's question.

Leal took the book, surprise registering when she had read the title, and with reverence she opened the leather cover, tracing fingers over the fine lettering on the paper. "Where did you get this?" she asked, looking at Teyla in shock.

"From Colonel Sheppard." She confessed his name with some trepidation, not entirely convinced Leal would keep the information between them.

She had, though, at least as far as Teyla knew.

It had been four days, and Leal had sat with Carson every night, reading the pages and trying to teach Carson to learn, also, so that he could read when she was busy working in the Home of Healing.

"I still fail to see the benefit of wasting our time reading this book."

Rodney's irate statement brought Teyla out of her reverie. "Because Colonel Sheppard brought it to us for a reason."

His hand moved in the air, "Oh, right, a book about the plague that kills all the royal family – so either he wants us to try and find a way to hasten Naem's demise, or he wants to find a cure." Rodney got up and served himself second helpings of the stew before turning to look at Teyla. "Pardon me for saying what everyone is thinking, but in light of recent events, I would vote for the latter, and in which case, I'd rather stick pins through my skin than help."

Teyla saw Leal watching them both, and she almost groaned out loud. Rodney would never learn there was a time to voice complaints, and there was a time to be quiet.

She was growing increasingly concerned about the bitterness she saw in Rodney, and even in Ronon. They shared a growing resentment for the situation they were all in, something she reminded them about nightly. Teyla did not want to break her promise to Leal, but in light of the poison eating away at her teammates souls, she felt a time came when promises were not meant to be kept.

Only, Leal had been with them nonstop. She was especially close to Carson, as they both sharing the art of healing. Teyla's work increasingly took her into other homes, so she left early and arrived late. And every time she tried to get time alone to confess her knowledge, Leal was there.

"According to this, the first symptom is altered behavior."

Carson read the line, then looked up. "The king has certainly acted odd since we arrived."

Leal bit her lip but read the next, "Trembling of the limbs follows, accompanied by a deterioration of the sight."

"He's declared Sheppard his dead son." Rodney sat down and started to eat. "I think that qualifies as altered mental status, don't you think?"

"However he came to us, John is Jaem," Leal defended. "I realize the circumstances are unusual, but my people needed a prince, and while I agree His Majesty has not been entirely rational in regards to Jaem, your Colonel Sheppard will be our Prince. My helping you will stop if you believe, or try to make it any other way, do you understand?"

Ronon grunted and raised an eyebrow at Rodney, his bread held inches from his mouth as he asked, "Sure this disease only affects the king and his family?"

Leal reddened, and stood, slamming the book shut and shoving it into Carson's lap. She stalked towards the door, pausing to address Ronon.

"When I was a child, King Naem was the kind of ruler that inspired great love and confidence. His wife was beautiful and gentle. The spring and summer after their marriage, the entire town awaited their child's birth. It was a time of celebration; then autumn arrived, and the queen's labor was long. The boy was born and Queen Sareal died. Our entire people mourned along with the king, but he was strong.

Jaem was presented to those that gathered with flame in the darkness to celebrate the prince's birth. In our history, there must be a prince, or we will live always in great peril. My first memory is of looking upon Jaem, and I tell you true, Colonel Sheppard is Jaem reborn to us; I believe my King."

Leal stared at Ronon, and then the others with ferocity that surprised Teyla.

"When Jaem died less than two weeks later, it was a blow too great for our king to recover from. He withdrew from his people, from our love. He isolated himself in his manse and spent time with his birds. Then the wraith came, and every single autumn after, and many said it was because His Majesty did not remarry and give us another prince."

Leal's face twisted as she turned to Carson, and Teyla knew something was developing deeper between the two of them, something more than sharing a passion for healing. "I thought you understood how important he is to our people!"

Then she was gone with the slam of their door, and even Rodney had nothing to say to that.

OoO

"Open, Jaem."

Sheppard opened his mouth, and forced himself not to close his eyes.

The porridge Leal had placed him on to try and get his strength up was easy to chew, and he swallowed it fast enough. That was the only blessing right now – that the food went down fast and he could get through this.

Naem smiled encouragingly. "You are doing much better."

He dropped the spoon into the bowl and John got to relax; he'd made it through another one. Then it was time for his wounds to be bathed. In the morning Leal usually did the chore, but at night, Naem did. "Lay back, Son."

John acted like a mindless man, and did. Naem had told John not even his thoughts could be against him, but the king couldn't read minds, and Sheppard could hide what he was thinking good enough. Sure as hell could when he had enough incentive, and as Naem wiped the cold anti-septic cream over the punctures on his thigh, John remembered every single reason he wouldn't show, or say, the angry thoughts running his mind.

He'd hung for days, maybe a week, but he didn't think it was more than that. The blood loss, pain, and whatever had been on those spikes stuck into his legs, had combined to make him weak and the two days since, he'd been unable to get out of bed.

The servants had brought his clothes for the crowning ceremony.

Days, it was just days away and where the hell was the Daedalus, anyway?

He refused to consider that something devastating had happened to Atlantis – they'd fought back attacks before and survived. They would come, he was convinced, it was just a delay, maybe an outbreak kept them back in the Milky Way longer than planned; they couldn't risk bringing bacteria from Earth to Atlantis if they could help it. It'd happened before; they'd ran out of coffee once during those delays and he'd listened to McKay go on and on about his caffeine withdrawal headache from hell.

It didn't matter if they crowned him prince, because frankly, he wasn't honoring anything agreed to without his free will.

"Leal says tomorrow you should be strong enough to get up." Naem rolled the dirty bandages into a ball. "I want us to go in the woods with Zarye and Aarye. They've missed you."

Sheppard doubted that, but looking at Naem's hard eyes, he forced the lie from his lips. "Great, can't wait."

Yeah, Naem had definitely taken the gloves off, and Sheppard kind of wished he'd put them back on. He was convinced that the king believed him to be some reincarnated form of his son, and he also believed Naem cared for him along that vein, but Arstaem's traditions and culture were seriously messed up, at least for someone like him.

He sure as heck hadn't asked for any of this.

Naem scooted into the bed beside him, lifting John's head till it was pillowed in his lap. He ran shaky hands through Sheppard's hair and sighed. "I know this is hard for you, Jaem. I do understand. But it does not change your duty and what I must do to teach you. Sleep again, Son, and tomorrow we will walk through the woods and talk about what will happen at the crowning ceremony."

John felt his eyes closing, and fought against it, but he was tired…so damn tired, yet even as he drifted away, he registered the trembles coming from Naem's body.

OoO

The manse was alive with sound and celebration. Candles burned in almost every room, doors open throughout the lower levels. The audience room was filled with tables and chairs brought to the manse on carts from town to supplement the ones on hand. Townsfolk milled throughout, talking and sharing events. Men and women played music in the background, and children cavorted around adults, ducking in between their legs.

Sheppard sat awkwardly beside Naem at the head of it, in a throne that had been brought to sit by Naem's, slightly smaller and lower on the dais.

The three days he had been on his feet didn't feel enough. He wondered if Naem would ever stop dosing him with that damned Lumival. He wasn't ready for this, but on the other hand, John kept repeating it didn't mean anything; just to them, and he didn't owe these people a thing.

He'd spotted his team when they entered the chamber. Teyla was wearing a dress, beautiful on her, like she'd always been a part of Arstaem. Ronon looked as strong as ever, dressed in an outfit that was a lot like his. Brocade silk tunic and pants, solid black, and if anything, it made the Satedan look even more feral than usual, but John also noticed how often he stumbled. The Lumival.

Rodney and Carson wore the same style, but McKay was dressed in solid blue and Carson in dark green. Sheppard wondered if Naem had ordered the clothes for them. As for himself, he wore for the first time an outfit almost an exact replica of Naem's formal wear. Deep red tunic with thick gold brocade on the arms, shoulders and hem, with black pants. And on the chest above his heart, an embroidered black panther.

Sheppard had asked him what it meant, but Naem had smiled and said it meant nothing. Funny, John didn't quite believe him.

He still felt his scabs rubbing against the material every time he moved. Every now and then one would get caught by the fabric and pull, causing a sharp spike of pain that made him wince. Luckily, Naem said all John had to do tonight, at least for most of it, was smile and look happy. At the end, the crown would be brought before him, then he would kneel before the people. Naem would take up the crown and place it on his head, declare him the prince of Arstaem, his successor, and then John repeated the vow Ascaria had taught him weeks ago.

After that, it was party till dawn, or however long the people lasted.

Sheppard looked wistfully at the open doors at the far end. They let in the cooling, fresh winter air, but the darkness was complete after the threshold, all the torches and candles now inside with everyone having safely arrived from the town.

There had been a Lupere attack on the main road when Sheppard had been hanging on the beam, was it six days ago? They were getting brave, and Naem had ordered Joros to selecte a cadre of guards to take a hunting party into the forest and kill some of the bolder females. He'd also decreed any one traveling between the town and the manse were to have an escort of four guards.

"Jaem, open," Naem ordered.

John turned, dread icing his insides. He almost asked _here_, but when he shifted in his throne seat, his leg reminded him painfully to just shut the fuck up and deal with it.

And he would've been fine, if he hadn't turned just then and saw Rodney watching him.

Adrenaline flooded his nervous system; he felt hot and cold at the same time. _Look away, McKay, just look the hell away_, he urged. Of course, Rodney didn't, he narrowed his eyes at John as if trying to figure out what mental signal Sheppard was sending.

"Jaem…"

Naem's second call was one hundred percent warning for Sheppard to do what was expected, to not ruin the evening by defying Naem in front of his people, _their_ people. He tried to tell himself this was how it was done in Arstaem. This type of submission was part of becoming a prince, part of becoming king, and they'd seen it all before, but that didn't stop him from sweating and reminding himself that whatever the Arstaemians could accept, McKay wouldn't understand.

_God damn it_, John groaned.

Naem's hand gripped his thigh, painfully.

Maybe if he passed out, he could blame it on the crowd and noise and say it was because he wasn't feeling well –

"Open, _now_."

His time was up, and since he hadn't passed out, Sheppard turned away from McKay and opened, staring instead at Naem, and feeling himself falling even as the food was delivered into his mouth. Son of a bitch.

The rest of the evening leading up to the crowning was an embarrassed blur. Naem made him eat from his hand more times. Then the musicians played a slow, steady cadence of sound thrumming faster, and louder, strings and drums, and Gaemal, with Joros and Baela on each side, dressed in a formal uniform Sheppard hadn't seen before, with a golden sash and tasseled rope around their waist, swords hanging in scabbards that gleamed brightly in the room, marched to the dais. A crown of golden leaves, the same as the one Naem wore, rested on a pillow of purple silk.

Gaemal bowed and said gravely, "Your Majesty, the First Advisor presents the Crown to the Prince, as my father has done before me, and so shall my son after."

"The king accepts the Crown for his prince," Naem intoned.

The music stopped, and Sheppard felt every eye bear on him.

Naem stood and pulled John to his feet. "My people! I present to you, your prince – Prince Jaem! May he lead wisely, love long, and protect you to the end of all of your days!"

The king stepped aside and John stepped forward, remembering what was expected of him. He was fighting his own internal panic with every step. On the third step of the dais, he knelt before Gaemal, the pain in his thighs screaming at him, as he bowed his head to accept the crown.

"Prince Jaem; upon you we bestow the people's trust." The First Advisor stepped away, then, and on the floor one step down from the dais, he knelt, bended knee and the entire room dropped as one. "In you, we trust."

Sheppard's heart was racing. He'd been in a lot of crazy positions, but this one took the cake. Swallowing, he stood, and repeated, "In the days of Spring, my watch has begun, in the days of Summer, I shall protect from all harm, in the days of Autumn, there will be another, so that the days of Winter shall never come."

When he finished, the townsfolk stood and shouted loudly, whistles and catcalls, and the musicians began playing a fast tune. Naem placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to whisper, "Well done, Jaem. I have never felt so proud, not even on the day you were born."

At least one of them was happy, because right then, all John felt was despair. Utterly gut wrenching despair, because he was looking straight into the accusing face of McKay and the twisted angry one of Ronon.

OoO

Naem returned to his chair, the trembling in his limbs great enough that tonight, he did not want to try and walk. Soon enough his people would know that he was ill with the disease, but for tonight he would not take their cheer away. It was a long time earned, for all of them. He could have taken the Lumival, but he had wanted to feel everything tonight, and the drug dulled the senses.

Jaem had moved from the dais into the crowd, nodding numbly at the well wishers, and Naem wished he was by his son's side.

He let Jaem talk to his companions, saw them moving to the far wall and exchanging what looked like angry words until the woman, Teyla, calmed them. Naem had almost left his seat then, but he did not want to spoil tonight for Jaem, and he knew his intervention would only cause more of a rift between them. It was a rift he had encouraged by keeping them separate. A ruler could not afford to keep close friends. He could have men and women serve that he grew to love and care for, but not to the degree he had suspected these five cared for one another.

The far edges of the audience chamber were already blurred, the disease advancing faster than he had anticipated.

Naem had only to sit back and enjoy the celebration, watch his people smiling and laughing again. Joros and Baela were watching Jaem, and he trusted in the training to keep Jaem from doing anything foolish, like eating anything without Naem feeding it to him.

Before morning had lightened the sky outside, Jaem had returned to his seat, looking weary.

Most of the townsfolk had left, only a few of the young people, not yet married but old enough to stay without their parents, remained. Naem stood, his muscles stiff, and gestured for Jaem to follow. "Time for us to get some rest."

They made their farewells and escaped to Naem's private chamber. Even though his own body was betraying him, Naem instructed Jaem to lie down. Leal was not going to be here this morning, or this night. In fact, if rumor was true, Naem might have Jaem issue a formal pardon for one Carson Beckett so that he might ask Leal to marry him. It was good that his people were moving past the terrible events of the night that had reborn Jaem to them. It had been necessary; great joy often arrived on the wings of great pain, such was Jaem's crowning.

His wounds looked healthy, and Naem bandaged him with clean cloths.

As he finished wrapping the last one around Jaem's thigh, his son grabbed his hand and held it. "You've got the disease, don't you?"

Naem stood, taking the dirty bandages to the garbage. After he dropped them in the pail, he walked to the cabinet and got a drink, poured two, and sat them on the game table, gesturing at the chair. "Sit, Jaem."

The board was waiting for their next moves, having been abandoned when Jaem had needed the harsh reminder of obedience, and now, Naem moved his Lupere in position to attack Jaem's First Adjudicate. "It began two weeks ago, which is why I had to be so harsh, do you understand? I will be leaving you soon and you must be a capable ruler by then."

Jaem opened his mouth when Naem held the glass up for him, and drank, before shaking his head. "Naem, about this disease…I have reason to suspect it's not…exactly a disease."

The folly of youth, Naem thought, thinking they knew everything and could bend nature to their wants. He was surprised at Jaem falling prey to it, though. "It is the way of the royal line, Jaem, there is nothing to be done."

One of Jaem's Luperes blocked his from getting to the Adjudicate and Naem frowned at the board. With the piece safe, the path to Jaem's king was closed. He studied the board, alarmed when his vision blurred. He blinked, and it focused. Maybe he should rest now, and play later. "I think we will resume this later." He finished his drink, and held Jaem's up for him. After both glasses were empty, Naem waved Joros to stand guard outside.

Jaem removed all but his undergarments and climbed into the bed, curling far into the wall, like usual. After Naem was settled, he tried again, "You're being poisoned. Just thought you should know."

Incredulous that Jaem would continue to push, Naem sat up. "Jaem, I will not allow you to make false accusations. Do you realize the damage of what you do? A prince – a _king_, must always believe in his people!"

He felt Jaem tense, but Naem felt his own anger growing again, how could his son do this on the morning of his crowning? Ancestors take all, this was the worse thing he had done so far. In less than a month, Jaem would rule alone; Naem knew his days were limited, and here Jaem lay, spreading lies.

"Forget it," Jaem whispered.

Naem wanted to, wanted more than anything that he could forget what his son had said, but it was not something he could let go. "Stand up, Jaem," he said severely.

The lean body rolled, Jaem's face wreathed again in reluctant fear. "I was only trying to stop the…" swallowing, he stopped talking and stared at the floor. "Never mind. You're right, I shouldn't have said anything."

"You are right," Naem breathed, walking slowly to the dresser and withdrawing the restraints. "You must learn that words are like weapons. Once they are loosed, they will do their damage, whether you regret them or not. Put your hands out for me, now."

At least Jaem did not compound his mistake by refusing to obey. Two days hanging would be sufficient; no whipping this time.

After he had Jaem secured, he left the room.

Joros straightened from the wall. "Sire?"

"Jaem is as stubborn as Zarye and Aarye when they focus on their prey. I will be in the aviary if you need me, otherwise, let him think about his latest transgression."

His guards both shared a knowing look, and Joros nodded curtly. "Yes, Sire."

Naem left the manse as fast as his shaking limbs would take him.

OoO

"ETA to P6X-371?"

Caldwell was barely containing his impatience. Despite Novak and Hermiod getting the hyperdrive fixed a week ahead of schedule, it hadn't been fast enough. The time lag between their trip to Earth, and then the repairs – he wasn't feeling positive about what they would find.

"Five minutes, Colonel," Hermiod answered calmly.

"Good."

He waited as the time seemed to tick by painfully slow.

"Colonel Caldwell, we are in range."

Finally, after all these weeks, they could go down to the planet and find out just what the hell had happened to their people.

"Lieutenant, inform those in the rescue team we'll meet on the hangar deck in ten minutes. I want everyone armed to the teeth, we are going to get answers one way or another."

He slipped from the chair. "Major, you have the con."

OoO

They actually did it.

Last night he'd watched John Sheppard, former Colonel, be crowned as some prince to this backwater planet, and now what? He'd watched, stunned, while Naem fed Sheppard. _Fed_, by his hand!

It had taken every ounce of will power, and okay, in all fairness, Ronon's restraining hands, to keep McKay from rushing up to that throne and punching Naem in the face. Sheppard wasn't like that – what the hell was going on that had changed him? Rodney didn't even recognize him anymore.

He knew hostility from the people in town had lessened, a lot, and he was pretty sure Teyla had something to do with it, and possibly Carson, but Rodney was sick and tired of cleaning out stalls, fixing equipment from the dark ages. He was fed up with all of it; Sheppard got to live in the important house, and literally get treated like royalty, and even if he'd been innocent in the beginning, it'd been over two months, and enough was enough.

What he couldn't understand was why Teyla didn't share his disgust.

The town as a whole had a holiday, and they went straight from the manse to their bungalow. Leal was attached to Carson, like always lately. Teyla looked worried, Ronon was as pissed as he was.

Wonderful holiday, really.

He slammed dishes around harder than he should, swept the snow they'd dragged in on their feet out the door. Stoked the fire and threw two thick logs to warm the room. Ronon was cutting another one of those damn pumpkins for dinner. And Sheppard was up there with servants waiting on him hand and foot, with a king feeding him. Ludicrous didn't come close to touching the situation.

"Rodney."

Ignoring Teyla, he stormed back to the door, opened it and threw out the water in the dishpan.

"Doctor McKay?"

Looking up, he realized he'd just dumped dirty water on Colonel Caldwell.

OoO

You try to do a good deed, Sheppard, and look where it gets you. Continually. Because everything from the time he'd met Naem, to now, had been filled with good intentions, well, maybe except for the time he'd told Naem to fuck off. And he was doing that a lot right now, not out loud, because Joros was watching over him. But definitely to himself

The pain that he remembered so well seemed to come back harder and faster with each new time he was hung on the beam. If he hadn't hurt so much, he might've cried, but the pain had rendered him incapable of doing anything more than hang and drift, lost in scrambled thoughts that weren't making much sense.

He'd finally talked to Carson last night. Not only had he gotten the book from Teyla, but he'd gotten one of the Arstaemian healers, Leal, to help him read and go over the possible causes.

Leal had firmly denied the possibility of poisoning when Beckett had explained it was the only cause that would explain what he was reading in the book.

With McKay hovering near, making an ass of himself, John had a hard time discussing it. He got that Rodney believed he was milking the situation, but Sheppard had enough of his own screwed up shit to deal with. He wasn't able to try and defend himself to Rodney, and he sure as hell wasn't able to explain the abuse he was suffering at Naem's hand.

Sheppard had a lot of pride and yeah, possibly arrogance, so in some ways, he was a lot like McKay, he just kept his comments to himself more often than not. That's where the two of them differed – that, and he had social skills.

So the thought of pulling McKay aside and saying, "Look, this culture has some seriously screwed up mores in dealing with their royal kids, and Naem is insane enough to really think I'm his son so there you go – instant ticket to the shame and humiliation club with a nice side dish of torture," was possibly worse than being forced to eat from Naem's hands in front of a room full of people.

Actually, it was worse.

Because admitting he'd allowed Naem to do this to him, even with the Lumival, it just… it was vulnerability and failure and everything that John had always considered antithema to who he was.

Why had he even bothered trying to save Naem?

_God_…the pain was driving him insane.

His feelings for the king were such a mess he didn't even know where to begin. He hated, Naem, definitely. Sympathized…a little. Cared? It scared him that the answer to that wasn't no.

Naem had held him when his body was in so much pain he couldn't see straight. He'd held him, fed him, encouraged him. Saved his life in the woods. Everything he'd done hadn't been out of malice, but from love, no matter how misplaced it might be or have started out from, it was what it was.

But still, a part of him, hated Naem to the depths of his being.

John's knees gave out, and he fell, only for his wrists to pull in the shackles, and another moan escaped.

_Please please please please_…he needed out.

Voices. Raised voices. He was hearing…no, he was dreaming, hallucinating…

The door burst open and he was really there. Caldwell. The Daedalus.

John sagged, and then moaned. He tried to straighten but he just…couldn't. Then hands were on his chest, holding him up, pulling his weight, supporting it. Rodney?

"McKay?" he murmured.

Rodney's face was near his, so near that John felt his breath against his skin. Sheppard wanted to tell him to go away, to stay. He wanted to grab McKay and say he was sorry for screwing this up, for letting Naem win, for not being able to protect his team, but he couldn't do anything, because all the words and thoughts jumbled in his mouth in a traffic jam, and in the end, all he could do was sink against McKay's strength and say, "I needed you."

And then he was surprised that in the end, out of all he wanted to say, the one thing he hadn't wanted to admit, was the one thing that came out.

"I'm here now," Rodney's voice broke and he held Sheppard tighter. "I'm here, Colonel."

OoO

Zarye was the one that first knew something was wrong, and Aarye was right behind her twin. They screamed at their glass ceiling and dove from the tree to the ground, and then back up to the tree.

Alarmed, Naem ran from the aviary in time to see Jaem's four companions, Leal and a group of newcomers walking into the manse. He'd left Joros and Baela guarding Jaem, the rest of his guard spread throughout the manse and town, except the two standing stiffly beside the door, looking at him for orders.

The newcomers were not drugged, and they were fully armed; their guns more than a match for the swords Naem's guards carried. It would be a slaughter…and even knowing it, Naem wanted to order it. They had come for Jaem. For his _son_!

Stiffly, he strode towards the manse.

By the time he had reached his private chambers, a crowd had gathered. A servant had run to him, curtsied, explaining they had threatened her if she did not tell them where Jaem was kept. Naem had pulled her from her curtsey and kissed her on the brow. "It does not matter, Besaema. Go, now, prepare dinner."

Then he'd continued resolutely to his chambers.

Jaem was being unshackled, then the one, McKay, cradled his son and the other, Ronon, helped carry him to the bed. When he arrived, Joros and Baela glared their apologies, but they were held at gunpoint, their swords taken from them.

Stiffening his resolve, and his body, trying to hide the trembling and blurry vision that affected him, Naem addressed the one he gauged to be the leader. "Why have you come?"

The man reminded him of Jaem when they'd first met, full of thinly coiled danger. "You kidnapped our people, lied about their condition, and blocked your Stargate." He put his hands on his hips and stared hard at Naem. "You're the one that needs to explain. Why has Colonel Sheppard been treated like this?"

"Prince Jaem is my son, reborn to us. He has been crowned, and has been undergoing the training that all princes must to become a fair and wise ruler." Naem tried to keep his voice steady, but the mental exertion to spar with this man was proving too much. Seeing Jaem in their hands made him feel ill, and he felt everything slipping away from him, just when he was at the end. It was not right, it was not fair, that he should not be able to die with the peace he had this morning.

Kings do not beg, though, and Naem would not let his pain show.

Suddenly McKay was running at him, grabbing him and throwing him against the wall. Joros lunged, but Jaem's people restrained him.

"Trained! You sick son of a bitch, you've been torturing him, all these months, all this time, when I thought," he shook Naem hard, his own body shaking. "When I thought he was living it up. I thought he was being treated like royalty." The man's face had reddened in his fury, the Lumival still making his limbs clumsy. His breathing was labored, and rapid, and spittle gathered on his lips.

"Rodney, stop…"

Their doctor, healer, was trying to pull McKay away from Naem, but McKay shrugged him off with an angry jerk and shook Naem harder. "Why would you do that to him?"

The strong one, Dex, pulled McKay away as easy as he would pull a child. He gathered the smaller man to him and said, "Stop it, McKay. We all made mistakes. This isn't your fault."

"Isn't it? If I had tried a little harder to find out what was happening, maybe I could've --"

"Could have what, Rodney?" the woman, Teyla, asked, her tone gentle, but the glare she sent to Naem was venomous. "Do not forget, we were all kept drugged. John was well guarded, always."

Jaem's groans finished what they started; McKay looked one final time at Naem, one last moment and said, "You've been poisoned. Sheppard figured it out … what's killed thousands of your family over generations, and knowing him, he told you. But I'm not going to save you."

He turned and walked to Jaem's side, leaving Naem feeling lost.

"Colonel Caldwell, John needs medical care."

Teyla stared worriedly at Jaem.

"I will care for my son," Naem protested. "He is my responsibility!" They could not take Jaem from him, not now. "Please, it is true that I am ill, that I will die soon. All I want is to die with my son by my side."

Kings never begged, but fathers did.

The man straightened, and pushed against something in his ear…their radios. He had seen Jaem wearing it before, when he had seen him again for the first time.

"This is Caldwell, lock on to my signal. You should be picking up --"

Leal pulled a knife, and before Naem could tell her no, she was running at their commander. Before the bald man could move, another of their men had raised the weapon in his hand and fired.

Leal's feet stumbled, her upper body jerked backwards, and Naem saw two pricks of blood appear on her shirt, so small at first it could have been a mistake in the weaving, but then they spread, faster than Naem had ever thought blood had a right too. Their doctor, Carson, he ran to her, calling her name.

"Leal, no!"

"Hold your fire, damn it!"

The look on Carson Beckett's face was terrible. Naem remembered his thoughts about the two marrying, and now Jaem was going to be taken from him, Leal was going to die before him, and Naem would have nothing but death to comfort him.

The doctor lifted her to him, held her just like he had held Jaem. He pushed a hand against the bleeding wounds that already had her shirt red and wet.

"Why, Leal?" His face looked sad, and angry. "We wouldn't have hurt him."

Naem's healer swallowed, coughed, and blood trickled out the corners of her mouth. She grabbed frantically for Carson's shirt, the same silk he had worn to Jaem's crowning ceremony.

"For…Jaem. He is…our prince," she sobbed. "I…tried…to tell…you." She coughed harder, and convulsed, her fingers holding to him as if to anchor herself against the pain, but in the end, she was lost, lost in the same vicious waters Naem had seen off the cliffs across Arstaem's forest.

"Colonel." One of the man's soldiers leaned towards the leader. "We need to get our people to the ship, Sheppard's not doing so hot and McKay's looking a little iffy."

He nodded, and returned to his radio. "Hermiod, lock onto our signal and beam us up on my command." He turned to the others, lingering on the doctor holding Leal. "Doc? You have a patient, I believe."

Carson Beckett was still staring painfully at Leal, but then he nodded slowly, and ran his hands across Leal's face, closing her unseeing eyes. He looked at Naem. "I want to be there when her body is burned tonight. There's a bloody lot of anger and pain to sort, but I won't let you take that from me, king or not, do you understand?"

It did not matter. Nothing mattered. They were taking Jaem from him, and he could not stop them. "Do what you wish," Naem said, his voice flat.

He turned to leave, but before he could, Ronon had him in his fists and Naem was again thrown against the wall, but whereas before, McKay had been in a rage, uncontrolled and without purpose, Dex had purpose etched all over him.

Naem had once compared him to a feral animal, and now he knew this man was like a Lupere, powerful and deadly, and with one purpose – to kill. He might not turn on those he served with, but he was more of a killer than any of the others. And Naem welcomed it.

"Kill me, Lupere," he urged.

"Ronon, let him go."

Teyla, always talking these men down from their heights of passion. She would have been a good match for Jaem. He had needed to find his son a princess…

"I should kill you now," Ronon growled.

Naem did not care. "Then do it and get it over with." He had never been afraid of death, only afraid of it taking those he loved.

"No."

The man let Naem go. He stepped back, and raked a violent smile over the king. "If Sheppard's right, and you've been poisoned, it's more painful than my knife." Then his face grew cold and empty. "For what you did to us, you deserve more than one death."

A soldier pushed something into Ronon's hand and they stepped back, the bald Colonel saying, "Now."

In a flash of light, they were gone.

Naem stared at the room empty of Jaem, Leal's dead body, and his guards. Joros… Baela. "Leave me," he ordered, his voice shaking.

Joros hesitated, but Baela bowed and left.

"Joros, please."

Fathers begged.

His last guard turned and left, closing the door behind him. Naem knew he was standing on the other side, and would remain there, until Naem left. His trembling legs carried him to Leal, and he gathered her in his arms, carrying her to his bed. She had been there when Jaem lived and died, and lived again. Now they were all dead. All but him, and soon Naem would join them, and his people would fall.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sheppard woke, he realized instantly he was on the Daedalus. He remembered the sick bay from after they'd gotten rid of the wraith virus and had returned after flying into the corona of a sun. Carson had almost locked him and McKay in there for the rest of the trip back to Atlantis – not so much because the radiation had caused anything significant, but because he'd sworn they could find trouble anywhere.

He felt even weirder than before when he'd been isolated with Naem, empty almost. Sheppard wasn't quite sure what he'd expected to feel like – elation, relief…normal. He did feel the relief, not so much on the elation, and normal? What was that – 'cause he really didn't know right now. He knew what it wasn't. It wasn't being abused at one moment, and loved on the next, both by the same hand. Gone was Naem stroking his hair away from his face, the constant presence of knowing someone beside him cared to that depth, even while at the same time, he'd caused a lot of Sheppard's pain.

Did intent count for anything? Naem had done everything, at least in his mind, for good.

For his people, Naem had said, repeatedly.

John knew one thing he felt – bereft. Alone.

For more than two months he'd had guards, Naem, Ascaria – always someone with him, or near him, and always controlling everything he did. Now that he had his freedom back, Sheppard didn't know what to do.

_Damn it_!

He tried to stretch his legs and the pain in his knees brought him up, too fast.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

Carson's soft brogue washed over him in waves, and John went ahead and opened his eyes, knowing he was going to have to face them sooner or later. "Yeah, Doc."

"You had us worried."

He did look worried. But he also looked guilty, sad, tired and Sheppard kind of thought, "You look like hell."

Beckett laughed, but it sounded forced to Sheppard.

He leaned back in the chair and let his eyes close. "Aye, I probably do." A few minutes slipped away before Carson opened his eyes again and smiled sadly at him. "Colonel, what happened down there --"

"Doc, believe me when I say, I don't want to talk about it."

In fact, Sheppard kind of thought they'd drag a full account from him over his dead body. They'd seen enough to know he hadn't lived like Wally and the Beave', hell, it had been closer to Stephen King's Misery. If they wanted to read horror, he'd point them to the media room on Atlantis and tell them to have at it.

John hated seeing the look of resolve on Beckett's face, because he knew what it meant. The peace he wanted, he wasn't going to get.

"You know we can't do that. What happened to you, it isn't going to go away, Son."

"Are we en route to Atlantis?"

Carson wasn't happy but he nodded. "Our ETA is fourteen hours. Until then, you are to rest, do you hear me, Colonel? Your body's been through a great deal in two months time, and I'm afraid there is still more pain ahead."

Seeing how much he hurt right then, it wasn't the smartest thing for Doc to tell him, but Sheppard tried to slow down his heart, his breathing, only to find that it wasn't working. Instead, it was getting worse. He couldn't breathe, could barely see…was this a panic attack?

Did it feel like a vise was pressing on your chest and going to squeeze the life from you if someone didn't stop it? He'd never had one, but he sure as hell felt like it now, and it only embarrassed him more.

"Colonel?"

Black dots danced in his eyes, an ocean roared in his ears.

"Doctor, is everything all right? I came to see how the colonel…"

"Teyla, a hand here!"

John's head was raised, and an oxygen mask was slipped over his mouth, the straps pinching his ears. Beckett's strong arms guided him into a bent position, his head down towards his knees, and his abused joints and muscles cried out from the pain it caused.

He was sweating, and cold.

When soft fingers soothed the hair off his forehead, Sheppard almost thought he was back there. "Naem?" Slowly, his lungs got enough oxygen that he could breathe. Then he could see again. Smell…enough to realize it was Teyla trying to ease his fear.

He swallowed, and tried to straighten, but Carson's hands had other ideas, and gently, he guided Sheppard down to his side, still in a curled position. "Don't straighten, it'll make you faint."

"I don't faint, Doc, I --"

"Pass out, I know," he said ruefully.

Sheppard settled for a disgruntled look, and thanked God he hadn't _fainted_. This was almost worse, though. He'd panicked, freaked out in front of Beckett, and then had Teyla walk in on them and he'd called her Naem when she'd ran her fingers through his hair. She'd done it before. He'd woken on the Hive ship, his head in her lap, and he'd had vague sensations of her soothing him before he'd fully woken from the stun.

It sucked that Naem had taken what was a normal comforting sensation for him, and attached all kinds of heavy shit to it. John wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to forget the way he'd felt then; helpless, vulnerable, desperate.

Sort of like what he felt now.

OoO

Teyla was used to living a hard life. She had kept her people alive for many years, and it was not until Sheppard's people arrived on Athos that Teyla began to learn how very much she did not know.

Life on Arstaem had not been pleasant, but it had also not been terrible, at least, once they settled into the town and began to live every day as a day to endure while waiting for the rescue they had all believed would come. The events leading up to that rescue would stay with Teyla for a very long time.

She had tried to tell the others that John was being abused, and was not living life as a privileged member of royalty, but Leal had truly believed in Naem, and what he was doing, and had tried to keep her quiet at every turn once she had suspected Teyla could not keep her promise any longer.

It was an accepted practice on Arstaem; for the royal family to train their successors in that manner, and the people had been so desperate that they had believed their king when he promised John would be the one to stop the cullings. As if the mere fact of having a prince again would act like some form of talisman, and ward off the wraith. So desperate to believe, they had gone along, and been as culpable as Naem. She wondered if she would ever forgive any of them, even the dead.

When the infirmary doors opened, Teyla was alarmed to find Carson trying to support John while struggling to reach an oxygen mask too far away for his hand to grab.

"Colonel?"

She was confused – when she'd left the infirmary earlier, he had been recovering and doing well, though Doctor Beckett had explained that shortly they would all begin experiencing withdrawal from the Lumival.

When Carson saw her, he shouted over his shoulder, "Teyla, a hand here!"

She hurried over and quickly grabbed the mask and gave it to him. While Carson got John settled, Teyla squeezed in behind, and rubbed John's back. He had been through so much, suffered, and she had done nothing, had not even confessed to the others his pain, and she knew he felt, his shame.

Within moments, John was lying on his side, and she tried to ease his misery. Perspiration had broken out all over his forehead and face, and the lost look as he squeezed his eyes shut, then opened to look around, made her wish again that Colonel Caldwell had not so easily turned the ship towards Atlantis, and away from any hope of finding resolution with Naem.

On Athos, when someone committed an atrocity against another, it was that person's responsibility to atone for their actions.

"Naem."

John whispered it so softly, Teyla almost thought she had imagined it, until her eyes saw the stricken expression on Carson's own face. Her fingers stilled in his hair, and she almost pulled away.

Her move to comfort him had been instinctual, something she did when he was unconscious or hurt.

John had mistaken her for Naem; the man who had brought him to this. Dimly, she heard the conversation between the two men.

"Don't straighten, it'll make you faint."

"I don't faint, Doc, I --"

"Pass out, I know."

As Carson said it, he rolled his eyes slightly at Teyla, and she did her best to smile bravely, when inside, she was a storm of emotions so great, she only wished to leave. When she looked down again, it was to find John watching her.

Clearing his throat, Doctor Beckett patted John's shoulder reassuringly, and pointed to a desk across the office. "If you need me, Love." Then he left Teyla alone with her injured team leader. She wanted to call him back, because she was not ready to confess to him, while at the same time, the burden was causing a large degree of discomfort.

"Colonel Sheppard, I am…we were…I wish…"

It was not working. Her tongue was as twisted in her mouth as her stomach felt. No one else yet knew the extent of what he had suffered. Teyla had prompted Leal into an explanation that went into the various methods that Naem would use, and did use. The suspension they had seen, the eating ritual, again, they had all seen but no one else understood as Teyla did – how John had endured a test and failed. He had been hung on that beam for two weeks…it was fathomless to her how his mind could still be strong, and yet, she knew it was…he was, for that was Sheppard.

Giving up on trying to explain, she took his hand firmly in her own, and knelt, touching her forehead to his.

"I'm fine," he mumbled underneath her hair.

She pulled away, feeling oddly pleased by his false insistence. It was so very like John to say something so absurd given the situation.

"No, Colonel, you are not." She said it firmly, and pulled a chair near to sit by his side, while he frowned, but did not argue. "I do not believe any of us are."

OoO

If Sheppard hadn't known better, he would've thought Teyla had taken some lessons from a psychic. Not long after his embarrassing episode that would probably get honorable mention on the thick report already winging across space to Heightmeyer, Ronon stumbled into the room, sweating like a glass of iced tea on a hot, steamy summer day.

He was shaking all over the place, and Sheppard hadn't realized the Satedan could ever really do pale. Apparently, he could.

And he could also throw up a lot.

There wasn't a lot to do for the withdrawal. The Lumival was a lot like the wraith enzyme, except it had the opposite affect. Instead of strength, it made the person weak; instead of better reflexes and ability to fight, the person was clumsy and ineffective. And just like the wraith enzyme (and Sheppard had really wanted Doc to stop using that comparison), they would all be sick, and then it would pass.

John had asked why the big guy was sicker than anyone else, because oddly enough, Sheppard was doing the best. That was when he heard about the botched escape attempt and how close Teyla had came to dying from infection. He'd been so caught up in his own problems, that he hadn't even thought to ask what had happened to them during the last two months.

Beckett wondered at some point that night why John was the least affected, but he pretended to have no idea. The truth was there had been enough times he had been too sick to have the drug, and then the time he'd gotten so sick in the beginning, then the enforced purging…it all boiled down to the fact that he'd gotten the least amount of the drug than all of them.

He tried hard to ignore them, including McKay.

Rodney had arrived, irritated that Hermiod had complained that he was dripping on the console, but he had been trying to get them back to Atlantis faster than the estimated five hours (by then). He'd looked over at Sheppard, but John had quickly closed his eyes and pretended he was trying to sleep.

Probably not the most believable maneuver he'd ever done, but McKay had muttered, "Oh, God." Then John had opened one eye to see him bolt for a trashcan on the floor, forgoing the emesis basin Beckett had out on a table.

After listening to him, Sheppard could see why.

Normally, he would've sat with Rodney, told him he was being a baby – make a few jokes about his abilities…the kind of things he did to make Rodney know Sheppard was worried, but right now John couldn't find his way to normal. His thoughts about it from earlier were just as confused.

How did you find it again after what Naem had put him through? It wasn't just a simple case of torture…Naem hadn't been beating him, demanding secrets. He hadn't done unspeakable things to Sheppard and then walked away. No, Naem had done unspeakable things, and then held him through the aftermath.

That was why John Sheppard was one seriously screwed up pilot.

He hadn't realized until now that you could hate someone and crave their touch at the same time. By making John depend on him for everything, including the food he ate, Naem had created some kind of needy bond. Sheppard was trying to cope with the abrupt severing of it, but to say he felt one hundred percent fucked was an understatement.

He wanted to go back to Naem, as much as he wanted to kill him. And then he felt all kinds of sick for the wanting part.

There was one place that he might be able to find normal.

Even though he wasn't throwing up, the other doctor that was running the show now that Carson was in a bed across the room, had insisted Sheppard have an IV. His back had been given the once over and though it hurt like hell, Naem had been careful. Nothing too deep and no infection, the cuts had already been healing. He had a headache from the withdrawal, sweating, queasy stomach, but all things considered, it wasn't that bad.

And luckily enough, right now they had shift change. He'd asked the nurse the ETA for Atlantis, and he knew they'd be there in a couple of hours. No one would miss him until then, so he yanked the needle out, pushed his finger on the bubble of blood, and swung his feet off the bed.

Carson snorted, and shifted to his side, making John pause, half standing, half sitting. He waited, seeing if Beckett would wake or settle back to sleep.

After a few minutes went by and Beckett stayed still, John was satisfied that he wasn't going to get up. He crept out from behind the edge of the privacy curtain that was only half-pulled, and kept going till he was safely in the hallway. A crew member in a flight suit was striding by when John walked out in his white scrubs and bare feet, and the woman jumped back, startled, then looked concerned, and tried to peer around him, searching for someone to confirm that he was allowed out in the hall.

John smiled and thumbed at the room. "Doc needs me to use the bathroom in the auxiliary sickbay, too many people in there right now."

She opened her mouth and then snapped it shut, nodding quickly, and walking uncertainly away, every now and then throwing him a puzzled look.

"Auxiliary sickbay," Sheppard muttered. "Good one, John."

Knowing she might mention his appearance if anyone started looking for him sooner than later, he hurried a little faster to his destination.

OoO

The F302 bay was quiet, the small spaceships lined in neat even rows on each side of the hangar bay. Everything was shut down, waiting for the time when they'd be needed. John ran his fingers down the hard angled planes of the first fighter, as if to take strength from the ship. _Normal._

He walked around, till he got to the latch, and popped the canopy. He glanced back, making sure he was alone, and climbed in, bringing it down over his head. Sheppard figured he'd get the time alone he needed here --time to sort out what was going on in his head. Eventually they'd realize he was missing, but the Daedalus was a big ship.

Then again, maybe all the time in the world here wouldn't help him.

The controls were dead, but he knew flipping a few switches, and he'd feel all the power he needed thrumming underneath and around him. This…this was normal, if he ignored the fact that he was only wearing scrubs.

He _was_ still Colonel John Sheppard, USAF, pilot. He'd never been Prince Jaem of Arstaem…

…or had he?

For those months, what had he been, if not Jaem, in everyone else's eyes, including his team. Because McKay and Ronon had sure as hell believed that he was being turned into something else.

He knew Teyla wouldn't lie about how she had felt, Ronon wouldn't talk to him about it, and Rodney…John didn't know what was going to happen with McKay. He didn't even know what he wanted to happen. An apology? A 'sorry I thought the worst of you', or a little groveling, and a promise to never doubt him again? Or maybe, Sheppard just didn't care at all right now, because if he couldn't even figure himself out, how the hell was he going to deal with McKay's issues, too?

Sheppard chuckled to himself at the irrationality of the situation and flipped one of the switches, just to feel the controls come alive under his hands. God, what he'd give to take her out, right now, just like this…

…why not?

John's hands pulled back, and he popped the canopy. Within a minute he was in the locker room and finding a flight suit and helmet that would fit. He would open the bay doors on manual and by the time they realized what was going on, he'd be in space, just him and the stars, with a good stick to steer by.

He was almost dressed, when McKay walked raggedly in the doors. Sheppard had jumped to the side, trying to get out of sight, but there wasn't anywhere to hide, and by the time he'd decided to act nonchalant, like he belonged here, his brain had processed that the intruder was Rodney.

Even green around the gills, he crowed, "I knew you would be down here. See me, see you, predictable."

Sheppard yanked the flight helmet off the bench. "See you getting the hell out of here."

Before he could get to the doors leading back to the hangar, Rodney stepped in front of him. "Either I come with you, or I'm telling."

"You wouldn't."

"I will."

They stared at each other, until Sheppard finally growled in disgust, and pulled open another locker and shoved the flight suit into Rodney's hands. "Where I'm going, you can't wear scrubs."

McKay swallowed and looked like he was having second thoughts. Sheppard hoped he was, because he wanted to be out there by himself, just him and the stars, but he knew Rodney would tell Caldwell what he was planning on doing and they'd have those hangar doors locked down so fast he probably wouldn't get through the pre-flight checks.

As Rodney dressed, Sheppard stood near, leaning on the locker for support. This was probably a stupid idea. A bandaged back, drugs in his system, the whole 'just been a victim of abuse, torture and psychological trauma', but that was exactly why Sheppard needed to do this. It was like getting back on the proverbial horse. He needed to know he could do it again; could fly, and be who he had been before Naem had changed him.

As for Rodney, he had a hunch that McKay would want to talk about what had happened…apologize while trying to not get too mushy, which was fine, because one thing the two of them just didn't get was mushy. But, what he _really_ wanted was for McKay to never bring it up – that'd suit him just fine.

Which probably meant it was going to be the only thing Rodney talked to him about for the next week.

It wasn't just Rodney, either. Sheppard knew that everyone was going to talk about how he was the victim of abuse, and that it was normal to be angry and confused. John almost wanted to stand there and tell them that he wasn't only angry and confused but lost – that he wanted to see Naem again, to talk to the man, and there was a part of him that couldn't even admit how much he wanted to feel that same level of caring again.

That was the bitch of it. When Sheppard had screwed up before, did something wrong that the military hadn't approved of, or even his dad, they'd just shipped him off somewhere else – wiped their hands of him.

With Naem, every time Sheppard had done something wrong in his eyes, he had punished Sheppard, but then he'd held him, cared for him, soothed him and told him that it would be all right. The nights recovering next to Naem had been scary because of that. Naem had never left him, never opened the door and kicked him out with a slap on the wrist and a black mark.

Which was the better mentality?

That's where Sheppard knew he was FUBAR…because a part of him had been so pissed over what his father, and then the Air Force, had done to him, that he couldn't look at what Naem had done and feel like it was as terrible as what everyone else felt. Not anymore.

He also knew the moment he confessed any of this, they'd write in his file with big permanent ink _Stockholm Syndrome_…and damn if he didn't know if it wasn't.

That's what John didn't know, what he couldn't pin down.

In some ways, those days in Naem's care, he'd felt more loved then he ever had growing up. And then he'd hated the king more than he'd ever thought it possible to hate another human being, and that was saying a lot when you considered some of the crap John had been through, not only in this galaxy, but on Earth.

It was surreal, to have good memories amidst the ones of pain and abuse. To remember fondly the walk in the winter, the falcons hunting above. The lessons with Ascaria, and the elation of learning an alien language. Those moments when Naem had caressed his hair, and soothed him, telling him it would be all right, and Sheppard had wanted to believe him, more than anything.

He'd been Jaem, Naem's son, and he'd been John Sheppard.

"You do realize Caldwell has the entire ship looking for you," Rodney said, climbing in the seat in front of John. "Hurry and shut the damn canopy before we're seen."

"Then I guess we better get going." Sheppard climbed into the back seat and shut the canopy. "You look like hell, and if you throw up in my ship, I'm gonna get pissed."

Rodney looked at Sheppard over his shoulder. "You're not one of those hold a grudge types, are you?"

"I wasn't," Sheppard answered dryly.

"Good, because…" McKay turned back to the front and slouched into the seat, bringing up the nav computer. "…if you do any loops, I will embarrass myself further."

The hangar doors began to open, the decompression alarms were wailing though he couldn't hear them inside the canopy with his helmet on. Sheppard couldn't keep the grin off his face as he imagined the look of surprise on Caldwell's face right about now.

As he steered the ship into position, he hit the turbos and said into the helmet mic, "Just so you know, I said 'wasn't' as in past tense."

And he pulled up, sending the fighter into a vertical rise above the Daedalus.

Rodney's groaning was worth it…for a couple of seconds. Then he felt like shit for making McKay feel like shit, and leveled out.

"Flight, this is the Daedalus – what the hell are you doing, Sheppard?"

John looked out the glass at the long galaxy class ship, as he flew under her and then headed out in front. Keying his mic, "Daedalus, this is Flight; I'm going home."


	8. Chapter 8

Naem knelt in his woods; Zarye and Aarye beside him, as they always had been.

He had not come to this decision lightly, but once made, he knew the time in which he would remain capable of following through was disappearing away from him, slipping through his fingers like the leaves of autumn through the sky. Soon he would not be capable of completing this task, or any other. Soon, his spirit would _be_ the leaves on the wind.

Karael would have done this for him, but it would not be right; they deserved Naem, his final act of the love he bore them.

Everything he had done had been for love.

His family, his people, his _Jaem_.

_Why?_ Why had they taken his son from him, when he had been so close to leaving this world with a clear conscience and a joyful heart? He had never meant to hurt anyone – hadn't he shown Jaem the wonders of Arstaem, taught him to see with more than his eyes, taught him that through obedience comes the power to serve wisely? Had he not shown Jaem that he loved him enough?

Why had Jaem left without seeing him, without allowing Naem a final plea to save his people…_their_ people!

A beak nudged his hand, and Aarye's clear, deep eyes met his when he looked down.

"That my life would have meant something, Aarye," Naem said, broken. "That my son would have ruled and saved them."

He knew Joros and Baela stood a distance away, allowing him his privacy. Now, when he needed more…when he needed his son.

The sobs that came were not welcome, but Naem lacked the strength to care. They shook his body, already weakened by the disease. What were tears compared to the loss he had suffered, the pain he had felt, to the hope he had coveted?

Zarye, disturbed by the motion, pranced uneasily around Naem's legs, and joined Aarye, resting his beak against Naem's hand.

He knelt in the pristine snow, among the bare trees, and remembered the promise he had felt only a week ago -- he had rejoiced inwardly at the return of his son and the hope for his people.

Raising his face to the sky, Naem made no attempt to stop the cries, instead, he sobbed harder upon the cold of winter, let it seep from him, into the ground and the trees, hoping it would be as a leech. His pain so great, one mere body could not possibly contain it and survive.

To share even an ounce of his misery and defeat with the world under his knees – to live long enough to see Jaem again.

This disease had all ready darkened his sight, and Naem could barely see. Kneeling amongst the old trees of despair, he did not feel so much a king as a beggar, and the sobs that broke free were not a terrible thing for a beggar.

He had been abandoned, left, without his wife, child, and soon, his life.

There was nothing left for him now. His death loomed, Jaem was gone, never to return, and his falcons must go free rather than whither away inside the aviary. They had stayed out of love, but they could not understand the meaning of death. They would not understand why Naem stopped visiting and hunting with them, and he could not bear to let his falcons feel an ounce of that uncertainty and pain.

Exhausted, and spent, his birds leaning against him, as if to give to him their strength, Naem climbed unsteadily to his feet. The snow left his clothing cold and wet against his knees, the snow chill against his hot skin. The fever had begun yesterday, and it was the last stage before the end. He had misjudged how long he had. Apparently, he had misjudged many things.

"You must go, both of you," he whispered, the dampness on his cheeks not only from the falling flakes. "It is the end, and I must be brave and say my goodbyes now."

Extending his arm covered in the leather buckler, he breathed raggedly.

The falcons had been his children when he had none, and at least with them, he would be allowed this. A final farewell, as much as it may hurt, and he almost wished that he had not been strong enough to make this trip.

Aarye was first, and instead of launching when he tried to send her off, she nuzzled her beak against his fevered brow. "I will miss you," he murmured, his words breaking through the thickness in his throat. He could not be strong; not anymore. He would be alone, truly alone; Sareal, Zarye, Aarye…Jaem. All of them gone.

Swallowing, and trying to regain some semblance of composure so that he could finish, Naem straightened, and stretching his arm, he said firmly, "Fly bravely, Aarye, and think of me!"

Then he threw her up, up into the sky.

Zarye jumped to his arm next, and Naem smiled weakly through his pain. "You and I are not meant for such things, are we?"

The falcon stared at him wisely and waited.

Stealing himself, Naem whispered, "Goodbye," and thrust his arm upwards one final time.

OoO

They were coming home.

Elizabeth stared out at the rough water, choppy and full of whitecaps, tumultuous in the gusts of wind rushing up off the ocean, and she repeated it, just because she needed to hear it, over and over.

They were coming home.

When the Daedalus had finally contacted Atlantis, it was to report, almost casually, the hyperdrive was fixed, and they had arrived safely at P6X-371.

Their ETA for returning to Atlantis was two hours, and, oh, by the way – five missing sheep would be returning to the pasture, alive, if not a little worse for the wear.

She had kept her composure in the control room.

Caldwell had signed off, saying, "See you in two hours, Doctor Weir."

It was then, that she had promptly found an excuse to leave, escaping to the balcony to deal with the strong emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She had felt it before, the same elation and relief. Near misses weren't new for them, nor returning from the supposed dead.

But that didn't mean that each time she didn't feel the fear, the worry, the mind-numbing panic that this would be the time there wouldn't be a miracle. Finding out that her people…her friends and co-workers were alive…it was as strong this time, hitting her harder then ever before, because this time their absence had stretched across weeks, and into months.

She had wallowed in her memories of them for over two months, secretly visited their rooms and sat amongst their things, just to keep their presence near to her. Elizabeth had never imagined she would form this kind of deep reliance and trust with John, Rodney, Carson, too. In Teyla and Ronon, she had found people to appreciate and learn from. And they all meant so much to her.

Soon, she would see their faces again, be able to touch them, and she would – Elizabeth would find some excuse, and she would touch. It might only be a hand on an arm, but she already knew she would need it. As much as she fought to keep some kind of distance between her, and them, it wasn't really working, and after fighting to hold it together for so long this time, Elizabeth really didn't care what rumors might fly. She would touch them all, hell, if she didn't think the five would be mortified, she'd gather them in a group hug. God knows, they all probably needed it.

With a smile now, she continued to stare out at the sky. Imagining Ronon's reaction to a group hug was almost worth trying just that…

"Ma'am?"

Feeling more relaxed and in control now, Elizabeth settled for looking over her shoulder, instead of straightening. Her arms were crossed and pressed against the rail.

"Yes?"

"Colonel Caldwell wanted you to know that Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay will be arriving ahead of them in an F302?"

The 'gate tech said it with a puzzled look, and Elizabeth had to admit, her eyebrow notched up a few levels. They would, would they…

"Thank you, Thomas. Let Caldwell know we'll be waiting for them."

Somehow she gathered this would be an interesting explanation.

She waited, and watched the horizon, and when she first spied the fighter descending through the clouds that cluttered the sky, the smile was a reflexive action that she fought hard to hold back, but she probably ought to give up bothering. In fact, Elizabeth wondered if she would be able to stop any time soon.

Walking as fast as she could without looking like a child, Elizabeth left the balcony and told Thomas she would be on the docking bay, meeting Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay. The trip took forever, but then she was out in the open air, the fighter already landed and the canopy opening.

Two familiar figures climbed out, and Elizabeth felt her breath hitch painfully.

She didn't lose it, she kept control, but her feet did stumble, at least for that moment when the physical impact of seeing them hit her. It'd been over two months – two, long, terrible months, when she hadn't known if they were alive or dead. All she'd had was her own desperate hope to cling to, and their left behind belongings and memories.

And there they were, walking towards her; familiar swagger and annoyed faces…their hair…those gruff, handsome faces…Oh, God.

They weren't paying attention, didn't see her by the door, engrossed in some conversation that had started in the ship, and continued now.

"You've got guilt," Sheppard said. "I understand that's rough for someone like you."

Rodney looked as if he'd swallowed something foul tasting. "I hate guilt. Honestly, there isn't a worse feeling in the world. When I was six, my sister broke my toothpick bridge. I took all her Barbies and cut off their hair. She cried for days and I had guilt. It sucks, and it's a completely useless emotion."

Guilt?

They were nearing the door where she stood, and still hadn't realized she was there, and the leader in her let them continue because she wanted to hear what this was about, even as desperate as she was to welcome them home with as much emotion as she could get away with.

"Look, I understand assumptions were made."

"And you know what they say about assumptions," sing-songed McKay, looking disgusted.

"Will you shut up and let me finish, I swear to God, I'm going to pass out in a minute and you won't let me finish."

"No, I'm not going to shut up. I want to make this right between us."

They had stopped walking, and were facing one another. The tension between the two was palpable, and Elizabeth felt the smile slipping. What was going on that had the two of them bickering? Was this why they had returned in a fighter? But if they were mad at each other, why spend the time together flying in an enclosed F302? If John wanted to avoid Rodney, that hadn't been very smart of him.

And now she was concerned – John did look alarmingly pale, and whatever had happened, she'd rather he didn't faint before she got to say 'welcome back'.

"Look, get this through your head, because I'm not gonna say it again. This isn't about you, it's about me, and when I'm ready, I'll let you know."

The smile finished evaporating as she took in the stricken expression on Rodney's face, the seethingly angry and scarily vulnerable one on John. A sick feeling gathered in her stomach, and she started to move forward. Sheppard turned, saw her and faltered.

She watched as he paled more.

"Sorry about stealing the ship."

His legs folded under him and with barely enough warning, McKay lunged forward, just in time to keep him from hitting the ground.

Staring at John in Rodney's arms, then at the F302, she asked, bewildered, "Stealing the ship?"

OoO

"He bloody well knew he shouldn't have been in that ship," Beckett swore. "Elizabeth, Colonel Sheppard was in no condition to be playing pilot, and Rodney --" Beckett fixed his glare on McKay who scrunched lower into his infirmary bed.

"Hey, McKay – I can still see you."

Weir folded her arms. "Colonel, that's enough. Carson, continue."

Ronon shook his head, thinking maybe it was time to cut his losses, and leave before the situation got worse than some of the fights he'd had on Sateda. Doc had been vibrating anger since he'd realized Sheppard had taken off, and when he'd found out McKay had split with Sheppard, well, Ronon was amazed Doc was still alive. He'd sort of looked like he was suffering some kind of fit or something.

"As I was saying, he's recovering from multiple injuries in a relatively short amount of time, physically, he'll recover, but not if he keeps playing Maverick!"

Sheppard rolled his eyes and looked at McKay. "Does that make you my Goose?"

"Shut the fuck up, Sheppard."

Rodney was shooting daggers at Sheppard so Ronon figured whatever this Goose was, it wasn't a compliment. Weir was looking her own kind of mad and she sort of got all clenchy and raised her hands. "Both of you, stop it now, or so help me, I will turn you over to Caldwell."

She raised her eyebrow at them in a look Ronon had all ready learned meant watch out; problem is, Sheppard never did mind it much.

"No, Elizabeth, I won't stop," Sheppard said with forced politeness and Ronon saw the wreck coming a mile away. "You've had your fun talking about the tragedy play that my life was, fine. I'll be a good boy, take my vitamins and apologize to Caldwell for my misappropriation of one of his ships, but in return I want to handle this my way." He pointed at his chest. "McKay wants to follow me around until I do…" Sheppard looked like he was searching, and he looked sideways at McKay, "…what is it you want anyway?"

Rodney seemed as surprised as Ronon by the question, but after he looked around, finally coming to rest on Sheppard, he huffed. "Since there seems to be a definite lack of privacy, suffice to say, I will haunt your footsteps until I think this…thing…is better."

As weird as it sounded, Ronon understood what McKay meant.

They'd all believed some not so nice things about Sheppard back on that planet, he and McKay the guiltiest of the four of them. Ronon would like to say he felt like he owed something to Sheppard, but all he really felt was his own failure. He'd believed what that king had wanted them to believe, and it wasn't a lot different from the time Sheppard had tricked him when he'd been under the control of Thalen.

Being gullible, as McKay put it, wasn't something he felt a debt for. Sheppard hadn't been enjoying his time as prince, and that's the way it was, but what made him seethe was his inability to get them out of there, starting from the first night and up to when they'd had to be rescued by the Daedalus.

Didn't mean he wouldn't want a few hours alone with Naem, the guards, or anyone he felt bore the blame for what had happened on Arstaem. No, Ronon wouldn't mind some one on one with Naem, but short of that, they were back, rescued, and all he could do was feel anger over his failure at getting them out of there before Sheppard's abuse had happened, and Teyla's.

"I believe what Rodney is trying to say, Colonel, is that he will not feel satisfied until he has 'made it up' to you."

McKay smiled at her. "Thank you, Teyla, that's exactly what I said."

"You do realize, John, that sessions with Kate will be mandatory." She looked at all of them, including Ronon. "For everyone, in fact."

"Definitely, Elizabeth. I know I for one will not mind unburdening myself to the lass."

Doc looked tired. Ronon hated to think about how much more tired he'd feel when Ronon told him he wasn't talking to anybody.

He didn't think Sheppard was all that interested either, but seeing how he'd made everyone mad when he'd stolen the fighter, Ronon guessed that Sheppard might not have much of a choice.

He did though. All he had to do was tell Weir he was leaving. Last time he'd done that she'd started apologizing and trying to get him to stay, and all he'd meant was that he had finished eating breakfast.

One thing Ronon had learned is that people can surprise you.

"I'll talk to Heightmeyer," Sheppard agreed. Ronon was definitely surprised. "But one condition – I want to go back to Arstaem."

Surprised wasn't what Ronon saw on everyone else. Doc and McKay, they looked sick. Teyla looked angry, and Weir just looked like she thought Sheppard was crazy.

Things got a little confusing then, everyone shouting why they thought it was a bad idea, so Ronon settled in, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the hills on Sateda in the spring time. He didn't have anything worthwhile to add to the discussion, his own feelings conflicted. Part of him could understand why Sheppard wanted to go back, get revenge. A survivor always did seek out the places they suffered the most when they'd recovered, just to go back and show everyone they'd won.

Ronon had done it enough times to know.

It wasn't till he realized it'd grown quiet, that he opened his eyes and saw them looking at him. "What?"

Weir knew he hadn't heard anything, and she gave Ronon a sympathetic look he didn't need, but he appreciated it anyway. "I've agreed to let Colonel Sheppard return, but, with certain conditions and one is an armed escort. Do you think you can handle returning to Arstaem?" She softened. "No one will blame you for saying no, Ronon."

"I don't have a problem going back."

Did they think he was that weak? Raking his eyes over Sheppard and seeing the carefully concealed tension, Ronon felt bad for thinking that. None of them were exactly weak, and he couldn't blame Sheppard for having problems. If they wanted him to go, he would. He'd try to help Sheppard as best as he could, but Ronon didn't think it'd be worth much.

It was Doc that cleared his throat and explained, "Son, what's she trying to ask, is if you think you can go back and not kill anyone."

"I can do that too."

Didn't mean he'd like it, though.

OoO

Going back to Arstaem felt like going back to his childhood.

The Daedalus had restored the 'gate before they had left for Atlantis, and a MALP verified no one had tried to topple it again. Carson had signed off on his physical health, pointedly refusing to do so on his mental status. He wasn't physically where he should be, but John had argued that Naem wasn't going to live long if his suspicions were true.

The thought that he might all ready be dead made John feel things he couldn't explain. A sense of loss, something indefinable, even to himself, and that made him feel every bit more vulnerable.

The snow was deeper, the river banks iced along the shore but flowing sluggishly down the middle. Dead grass poked up from the drifts, themselves blanketed in white. What struck him first after they walked through the 'gate, his team and Lorne's, was how quiet it was. No people running to greet them, no birds or kids. It felt like a pall had fallen over Arstaem, and he felt like it was his fault.

He hadn't even been conscious when the Daedalus had left, and maybe that was a good thing, because he would've insisted on returning once he could stand…to do what he was doing now. To face his demons, but these demons weren't easily dealt with. It wasn't so simple as saying Naem had tortured and abused him, like some stupid kid that can't protect themselves – he'd made Sheppard feel helpless, had made him dependent on Naem, and then he'd turned around and loved John. Cared for him. Comforted him, when he'd been in the pits of his despair, something that John had never had before.

Not from his _real_ father.

They were waiting for him to give the signal, watching. Rodney was being true to his word and staying close, but Sheppard wasn't giving him absolution. For one, John didn't actually believe McKay owed him anything. He'd thought the worst, and he'd been wrong. That alone was suffering for Rodney.

Was he pissed at Rodney for thinking it, sure, but he was more pissed at himself for being in the position where McKay knew the truth.

He was quiet for the entire walk to the manse. Teyla and Ronon understood, but Sheppard knew it was making the others uneasy. Tough shit, they could deal with it. The last thing he felt like doing was playing a round of 'how's the weather'.

There weren't any guards at the main entrance, and John strode in, surprised at how fast his heart sped up.

_Oh, God_, not now – as his breathing grew rapid and hard. The vise around his chest was tightening, and all he could think about was for everyone to get the fuck away.

Thankfully, Carson knew what was happening, and he told the others, more tactfully, to give him space.

With Rodney hovering as a screen, Beckett popped a syringe and pulled John's sleeve up, exposing his upper arm quickly and plunging the needle in.

"What…is -?"

Beckett's smile was sympathetic as he pulled the hypodermic away, briskly rubbing the skin. "Something to help calm you, Colonel, nothing more." He pushed John's head down between his legs and counted softly back from ten. By the time he got to one, Sheppard could see without the black spots, and though he still felt like he wasn't getting all the air he needed, the vise had loosened.

"Thanks, Doc," he rasped.

John straightened, working hard to slow his breathing down. Kate was gonna have a field day with him for sure. Panic attacks. That's all he needed, hell, he was beginning to feel like McKay.

"What was that?"

Speak of the devil. Rodney was looking back and forth between Sheppard and Carson.

"What was what, Rodney?"

"That – what just happened, and don't make that face at me, Carson."

Beckett was looking at John as if to get permission to explain, and John really didn't want him to, when Teyla interrupted. "There are guards coming, Colonel."

Guards, his team, Lorne's team…a powder keg just looking for a fuse.

Sheppard was only here for one reason, and that was to settle this…thing. Well, that, and to see if his suspicions with the poison was right. He understood Elizabeth's need to send enough people that she thought he'd be safe, but he was probably the only one most likely to survive anything on this world, seeing how he'd been crowned their prince and the king was lying on his death bed.

When he saw the guards running into the corridor, he at least had the satisfaction of seeing Joros and Baela. That suited him fine; John could start with them, but first, he needed to get rid of the clown troupe.

It took less effort than he'd hoped for. The library was just off the hall, and the prospect of seeing some of the ancient books was intriguing enough for Lorne's scientist, which meant that Lorne felt pulled to go with, and Sheppard could count; four down, four to go. Persuading the others to leave wasn't easy, but he was desperate, and maybe it showed. Maybe he looked a hell of a lot worse than he felt, because when he'd turned his face to them and asked, "Please," they'd looked worried, annoyed, irritated – mostly worried – then reluctantly agreed, as long as Sheppard could call for them if they were needed.

The audience chamber was empty. Looking at it now, he couldn't tell there had been a massive celebration only a week ago. Music, lots of people, and even more food. Naem had been in high spirits, and Sheppard could remember it as being one of his lowest.

As he walked in behind Joros, he remembered the appalled look on Rodney's face when John had eaten from Naem's hand. He hadn't had a choice; he'd never had a choice. So why did he blame himself?

Joros headed for the dais, sitting on the bottom step, and gesturing for him to sit next to him. Sheppard kept standing. It wasn't because he was trying to make a point, it was just that sitting…it reminded him even more, and he just couldn't.

"My Prince." Joros tilted his head to acknowledge Sheppard now that they were settled. "His Majesty is very ill. I am curious, why did you come back?"

John exhaled, thinking that was the twenty-four thousand dollar question, wasn't it?

"To see him."

It was the simplest answer, and in the end, the basic truths are sometimes enough. He had returned to see Naem…it was _what for_ that was still eluding him.

"He thought he would never see you again." Joros shifted his sword and smiled sadly at John. "We all believed we would never see you again."

Sheppard laughed somewhat bitterly. "I thought I'd never see you again, too."

They shared a moment of silent consideration before John couldn't hold out. From the time he'd first heard about the mysterious disease to when he'd been rescued, it'd weighed on Sheppard's mind. The old book had been his only lead, and Beckett had managed to figure it out and confirm his suspicions – of course, that's all it was at this point. With the bodies burnt, their ashes in the mausoleum, any real evidence was gone, destroyed long ago.

The last to die from the disease was a sister of Naem's.

Stealing himself for what might turn into a very big mess, John moved first, because hadn't Naem taught him that a king waits for no man? "Who does it? The First Advisor…was it Gaemal?"

A shadow passed across Joros's face.

"It was you," John breathed. "You poisoned Naem."

He searched the guard for proof, and saw it. Regret bent the guard's shoulders as he stood.

"Come to the library with me," Joros said. "There is something you should read."

Sheppard followed silently.

The revelation hadn't been that much of a shock – he'd all ready figured it was one of the people close to Naem. The king had never attended feasts in the town, and the only people with access to his food, drink and water were the servants, guards and those members of the town with positions that allowed them regular meetings with Naem.

But Joros?

Sheppard remembered the man as the last person that would harm Naem, and staring at the guard's stiff back as he led John to the library, he wondered why – because it wasn't only _this_ Joros, it'd been thousands of previous Joros's.

Maybe Beckett could help Naem, if Joros could give him a sample of what was used?

Then the king didn't have to die…

…but didn't he want Naem to die?

Sheppard stumbled when he realized the answer wasn't what he expected.

He didn't want Naem to die.

Joros paused at the double doors leading into the library, nodding to Baela. The other guard scrutinized John, seemed to know what was going down without having been with them in the audience chamber. He hesitated, but with a final look at them both, he left.

"Does he know?"

"Yes, Jaem."

Joros opened the doors and waited for Sheppard to walk in. His use of Jaem made Sheppard feel things he didn't want to feel. A sense of belonging, hate, wistfulness…he wasn't meant for this life, it wasn't his. It had belonged to a baby that had died a long time ago, and it had only been the desperation of a ruler that had made him into that other person. Or tried to make him into Jaem. Would Naem have been successful? If the Daedalus had taken another month, or two, would it have been John Sheppard they rescued, or Prince Jaem?

His team looked up from the conversation they were having at one of the long tables; the same tables he'd sat at before, both in pain, and in study. The flash of insight that they would never know how he felt made John feel sad and awkward as he waved to them.

"Read this, then I will answer your questions."

Joros stepped to a spot on the floor, right under the apex of the dome. He knelt, and pushed on a series of stones. The middle stone rose, letting Joros lift it free. A small compartment was revealed, and in it were several vials and a small, thin leather bound book. It was the book he gave to John.

"The first page is everything you need to know, the pages after contain every account of past poisonings."

The guard looked older, aged under the weight of the revelation, and while John took the book and moved to a bench, Joros replaced the stone and waited.

This book looked like the one he'd found before, old and worn. It was probably copied down over the millennia to prevent the records from being lost to age, but this copy was fast approaching that point in time. He purposefully sat away from his team, away from their prying looks. Not sure of what he expected to find, Sheppard opened the volume.

**_The Order_**  
_By Bilael Daud,  
Third Adjudicate_

_**A brief summary:**_

_In the first year of the Third Age, the first king of Arstaem was ordained by the First Adjudicate Naesil Gadara. The appointment was seconded by the Second Adjudicate Haegal Tormod._

_Conferred in secret, ordained by the council of twenty and four upon the day of their disbandment, The Order shall thereafter become Guard to the People. From father to son, from mother to daughter, the oath to ensure that Arstaem's people shall never be ruled unwisely, and unjustly._

_To this end, there must be only one King, or one Queen, descended from the royal lineage, and so forth every generation, and, upon the ascension of the new prince or princess, the old King (Queen), and any remaining heirs that live, must be delivered to the Ancestors._

_**The reasons are thus: **_

_It is never wise to have one throne, and multiple possibilities. In the ages before the council of twenty and four, there had ruled a King and Queen. Sons battled for the right to ascend, and daughters were used as leverage. The cities allied behind the different heirs and there came wars. Brother murdered brother, and father murdered child._

_This is a burden we would not have happen again. In the failure of the council to rule wisely, the wars came again, and now the people are left with ruins and one path. It is said that the unwise fail to learn from history, so we shall not be unwise._

_There will not be multiple heirs._

_The ritual murder will allow the Guards of the People to prevent the same events that ripped Arstaem apart, and ensure that the mad and twisted do not rise to the throne._

_It is an unpleasant task, but entrusted to every member of the order is such that it must be carried out to the fullest extent of oath and duty._

_The Haveala poison is odorless and colorless, it is of all the known poisons, the least painful._

_The Order will confer at the onset of Autumn and deliberate upon the fate of the people and the possible heir to the throne. It is known that not every year demands action, but a vigilant watch so that when the time for decision is upon the order, the right choice is made. A good, wise match is a must._

_If a Royal family has multiple heirs, decisions against shall be weighed, considered and declared in a manner so that the King and Queen will have the benefit of time to blunt their grief on the losses they shall be forced to suffer._

_**On the Structure of The Order**_

_The Order will consist of four from each category, and two more from the Royal Guard; those that know the Royal family best._

_Guard_

_Adjudicate_

_Healer_

_Agrarian_

_Mouth of the Ancestor_

_The number shall be twenty and four, like the council of old, and a majority vote of twenty must be reached to declare an heir, and therefore seal the fate of the remaining Royal children._

_If no heir lives, The Order must do every reasonable action to ensure that one is produced. It is their duty to ensure the royal line does not fall._

_**So shall the Oath be made:**_

_I, of the Order, do declare my vow to protect the people, of the people, by the people; let no man come between the moral value of what is right and what is wrong; that I will execute my responsibility to the people, and the Royal family,_

_In my name, I declare._

John closed the book and murmured, "For every season there is a price."

Ritual murder, ritual abuse – these people had it all. Was it their right to judge? They say winners always write the histories, but in this case, it looked like the losers had the last say in things. If it hadn't been for the wraith decimating Arstaem, they would've prospered. For generations they had, apparently. This method had a higher success rate than any monarchy had ever had on Earth.

But Sheppard wasn't one of those people that believed the means to an end were justified just because it worked.

Joros came back to him, seeing that he'd read what he needed. The old guard smiled wanly. "Now you know what no member of the royal family ever has. You can order me killed, if you like, it is your right as prince, but as you can see, you will have many more deaths to order." He withdrew his sword from the scabbard by his side, and Sheppard sensed his team and Lorne's reacting. Joros had, too, because his hand paused, the sword partly drawn.

"It's okay," Sheppard assured them, standing and holding his hands out in a gesture for them to lower their weapons.

When they did, warily, John turned back to Joros. "It isn't my right. It never was."

Joros's sad smile never wavered. "Jaem – you were, _are_ him. The infant child held a promise of what you are, and do not doubt for one moment that we did not believe otherwise. You are my prince." Joros stepped to him, pulling the sword free of the scabbard and bent to his knee, the point pushed into the floor in front of him, clasped in a two-handed grip. "I would have served you faithfully and given my life for you."

"You would've poisoned me."

"At my age, I would have been spared administering the Haveala, because I would have already preceded you in death."

Sheppard felt everyone watching him and Joros. He closed his eyes impatiently and opened them just as quick, struggling to keep things together. "Get up." He tugged at Joros. This guard had saved his life, along with Naem. It didn't matter that if circumstances were different, he wouldn't have been out in those woods…what mattered was that Joros's intentions weren't evil, and it gave John the hold he needed to pull himself off the precipice he hadn't even realized until then that he was on.

Joros hadn't poisoned Naem out of some twisted plot, he hadn't kept Sheppard at the manse or helped put him the shackles from any deep darkness in his soul. Everything he had done, had been because he'd believed he was serving faithfully.

The bitter taste in his mouth was from realizing, that unlike his team and probably everyone on Atlantis that would find out about what had happened, Sheppard didn't see any good or bad in what had been done to him anymore. When good intentions make people do bad things, all you get in the end is a whole lot of gray. Revenge, harsh words, anger – none of it would give John what he needed. His battle wasn't with Joros, or even Naem. They were the catalysts…in the end, his war was with himself. How he walked away from this and what he believed about who he was.

John Sheppard would never have let Naem feed him. Prince Jaem hadn't had a choice.

"Is there an antidote?"

Before Joros shook his head, Sheppard knew.

Maybe Beckett could…

The doors were thrown open, and Baela scanned quickly before settling on Joros…and John. He rushed across the room, and knelt before John. "Prince, His Majesty is failing. The healer believes his time is near." The guard's eyes shone as he looked up at John. "Jaem…he calls for his son."

Joros laid a hand on his arm, and Sheppard looked at the lean, worn fingers, knowing what Joros wanted. He raised his eyes to the man.

"Would you go to him? I would wish that he would find peace before the end."

"It shouldn't have been the end," Sheppard accused.

"You were our prince."

The guards waited, subdued and solemn, and when John looked away, it was to see all the eyes of Lorne, and his team…everyone watched, waiting, and knowing that something was happening. They wanted to see what he would do, and Sheppard wondered what they expected – did they think he should turn around and leave, let Naem die without the comfort he was calling for? Would they find one more reason to label him screwed if he went to Naem now?

It was a good thing that John had always done what he wanted, instead of what others thought he should do, because he'd always known what his answer would be, even if he hadn't admitted it to himself before.

"I'll go."

But first, he'd give Beckett the book, tell McKay to stay, because this was something he had to do alone. He didn't want Rodney there. John was smart enough to know what he had to do wouldn't be understood by McKay. "Give me a minute," he said.

He pulled the book off the table, and headed over to talk to his team.

OoO

Naem was alone, and death was so dark. Would that he had ended in his sleep and not lived to wake another day. Every night – but it was always night now – he would pray to the Ancestors to take him. Naem had nothing left to fight for, so why he lingered when he only wished to leave, no one could answer.

"Sire?"

The woman held his hand, tying to comfort her dying king.

Her comfort was the coldness of winter to him.

"Leave me," he struggled to say. Weak, and raspy. Alone…he was alone. "Please…leave me."

"No," she whispered near his ear. Sounds hurt him, like physical blows. "Sire, there is someone here to see you, and I must leave, for a little while."

"Who is there?"

Were his words like leaves on the wind; snatched away before they could be heard? Naem thought it was surely so, as the hand withdrew, and footsteps faded. He was alone, but for the emptiness in his soul.

"It's me…Jaem."

"Jaem?" he cried. His son? Could it be true, that he had returned to Naem before he was gone. "Let me feel you." He stretched shaking hands, reaching…touching, that face…his hair. Naem had always loved his hair, so soft. "It is you," he whispered lovingly. "My son."

"I'm here."

Naem wished his sight had not been stolen, that he could have looked upon Jaem one final time, but this was enough. He smiled tiredly, and let Jaem take his hands from his face and hair, and hold them within his own.

So strong, so full of life.

"You will save our people," he said, finding his own strength. "I knew you would, Jaem. I always knew."

"You should rest," Jaem murmured, so close Naem felt his soft breath upon his cheek.

Naem was tired. His body felt numb, as if he were floating away. A light in the end of the forest grew, so bright, that it hurt his eyes and burned away the darkness. Suddenly, Naem was afraid. He clutched Jaem, and cried out. What was in the light!

He was afraid.

Soft fingers stole across his forehead, the sensation growing dim in his mind. "Jaem," he whispered, but he could not hear. "Jaem…I loved you…" the light brightened and dimmed. His woods! He was in his woods, in the falling leaves of autumn, swirling around. Naem gasped at the beauty, the peace. "It is so lovely."

A touch of lips to his brow, so dim was he now that he barely recognized it. Naem hated to leave his son behind, but the woods called to him. Behind an old, crooked tree, a familiar face stepped out, her flowing black hair blowing in the breeze, falling leaves coming to rest, tangled in her curls.

"Sareal," he breathed…

OoO

Sheppard pulled away, and though he hadn't been able to tell the lie of love, he had given Naem the comfort of his son at the end.

He lifted the silk sheet that he knew with intimacy, and raised it over Naem, letting it fall over the king, covering him.

The road for Naem had ended, but John's stretched ahead. He would return to Atlantis and face the forced counseling sessions, and the worried stares. It would've been a lot simpler if everything had ended here in this room when Naem died. If he could've walked through those doors to his team waiting and said, "It's over," but he couldn't.

The things he'd been put through, the truths about himself he had to face, they didn't end on this bed, or in this room.

He'd thought about Naem's people, what would happen when he left, this time for good. The wraith would be back, they'd cull and keep culling until nothing was left. The guilt he felt over that pissed him off, because it went deeper than the usual sympathy for a world that had to get by like everyone else out there. Instead, he felt an obligation to fulfill Naem's only wish – that his son save his people.

John had come to a decision about that when he'd sat with Naem. The mainland had plenty of room, and he knew the Athosians wouldn't mind new people, but before Sheppard let them go through that 'gate, he was going to make it clear that the government they'd had, the practices they'd had, would be left behind. With the Royal family dead and ended, maybe that's all it needed anyway. There wasn't a king to train a prince anymore, and there weren't any heirs to murder.

Staring at the room where he'd suffered, Sheppard knew of one last thing he had to do.

Walking to the middle of the room, he bent down and searched for the spot that dropped the beam. He found it quickly, and once it was lowered, Sheppard got his P90 from the dresser and aimed at the chains.

**The End**


End file.
